Building Bridges
by Loafer
Summary: COMPLETE. LASSIET by the time it's over. This is a revision of my earlier Karlton, "Burning Bridges," in which Carlton went off on Juliet. Here, Juliet reacts, but as it turns out, maybe those burned bridges CAN be rebuilt. Takes place after S7's finale "No Trout About It."
1. Chapter 1: The Big Blow

**Disclaimer**: if you ever thought I claimed _**psych**_, you were kinda silly.  
**Rating**: T  
**Summary**: Once upon a time, Lawson227 cajoled me into turning a Lassiet into a Karlton. Now, she's cajoled me into turning a Karlton into a Lassiet. My story _Burning Bridges_ provides a portion of the first chapter of this saga redux (specifically in Juliet's memory of her conversation with Carlton, in italics). This re-visit is centered around Juliet's reaction to Carlton's behavior in that story.

**SPOILERS** for _No Trout About It_, the S7 finale. Slightly AU, since as is my usual trick, I pretend Marlowe doesn't exist.

**. . . . . **

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet O'Hara was seldom truly angry.

Annoyed, vexed, exasperated—frequently. Between being a cop and being Shawn Spencer's girlfriend, a woman really had no choice in the matter.

But truly down-to-the-bone angry was an infrequent feeling (also usually related to Shawn in some way), and she didn't like it.

She didn't like being angry, and she didn't like feeling hurt right along with it, and she most especially didn't like that it was because of Carlton.

Who wasn't supposed to hurt her.

He'd certainly annoyed, vexed and exasperated her over the years. He'd been thoughtless in his uniquely Carlton way many times. But he'd never _hurt_ her like this.

She thought back to their Great Divide over his discovery of her relationship with Shawn. There had been pain there, but it was about the _situation_, and about her realization he was right to be angry. And _he'd_ been hurt: she saw it in his large blue eyes and ached for having done it to him out of her own cowardice.

But even then all he'd said was that he couldn't trust her.

Not like today.

Getting out of the car, she headed down to the beach and snagged a bench the moment an elderly couple vacated it. The wind was sharp, and she told herself it was the only reason her eyes were burning.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_He'd barely cleared the pillar closest to what used to be his desk when Juliet spotted him. "Carlton!" she hissed. "What are you doing up here?"  
_

"_Hello to you too." He veered to the coffee bar and started to pour steaming elixir into a mug which used to be among his favorites._

"_Trout's in a foul mood. If he catches you, he'll—"_

_He interrupted. "What? And when is he not in a foul mood?" There was bright red paint all over his black uniform, and yet he still looked trim and orderly as only Carlton could: the black fabric accentuated his vivid blue eyes and the silver in his still mostly-black hair._

"_What happened?" She pointed to the stains._

"_A gift from my _buddies_ downstairs. The old paint can over the locker door routine." _

_It had been two months since Trout put him back on the line, two months since Juliet was partnered with Miller, two months since Karen Vick was unfairly suspended, two months since Buzz was summarily fired, two months since Shawn and Gus were banned from the station. _

_In those two months, she knew the men on the line had "played" at least six pranks on Carlton—this one the messiest—and it was clear they intended to make the most of his downfall. It wasn't something he discussed with her; they'd barely seen each other in weeks and he didn't have a lot to say about it on the phone. Not that she'd pressed: she had her own Trout-related travails._

"_Oh, Carlton," she began. "I'm sorry. But you can't—"_

"_It's coffee. Anyone can drink coffee anywhere in the station. I never stopped any uniform from getting a cup up here, and neither did you."_

"You're_ not a uniform. You're Carlton Lassiter. And Trout doesn't want to see you in the bullpen." _

_Carlton sipped his coffee slowly. "He never told _me_ that."_

_Juliet was exasperated. "Don't push him."_

_He laughed harshly. "He's already busted me back to patrol. You think he's going to nail me for insubordination over a cup of coffee on my lunch break?"_

"_Don't _push_ him," she repeated. "You know he's half crazy, and I want you back here as much as you do, so don't screw it up."_

"_It's been two months," he snapped. "Two months of an unnecessarily punitive action over bad choices we made based on your asshat boyfriend's lies. At this point I don't see what's left to be screwed up."_

"_He could fire you! And since he already fired Buzz and Psych, I wouldn't be so quick to test his limits!"_

_Another sip of coffee before he said deliberately, "The only real shame there is Buzz."_

_Juliet managed to keep her voice even. "Think what you like about Shawn, but he solved a lot of cases for us."_

"_No, O'Hara. Not _for_ us. _With_ us. And what was it? 100 in seven years? Compared to how many you and I solved without his 'help' at all? What would you say the ratio is, hmmm? A hundred for them compared to _thousands_ for us? Yeah. Big loss."_

"_No solved case is worth dismissing because of numbers." She tried not to sound as icy as she felt. "The sooner you get your job back, the sooner we can start doing what we do best."_

"_Aren't you working with Miller?"_

"_Are you kidding? Trout's got us on cases so cold there's frost on the folders. It's like he's punishing Miller too."_

_Carlton shrugged. "Cold cases sound all right." He gestured to the paint on his shirt. "Unless you think this is a good look for me." He took another large sip of coffee and walked away._

_Juliet followed, looking anxiously over her shoulder toward Trout's lair. "I mean it. You need to tough it out until we can get Vick back, so she can rehire Psych, and we can go back to normal."_

_He stopped and stared at her. She tried to read his expression and couldn't, and was startled when he grasped her arm and pulled her into the empty conference room, shutting the door behind them. _

"_What?"_

"_Let me hazard a guess about your real motivation."_

"_What do you mean?" She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. "You know my motivation."_

_He set the mug down on the table. Crossing his arms, he fixed her with his steeliest, bluest glare. "Spencer's costing you money."_

_Juliet flushed. "I don't—"_

"_He hasn't worked in weeks, has he? He probably hasn't even _looked_ for work. You just paid this month's rent, I assume, so between you and Guster he's got a sweet life with no expenses at all. Maybe it's begun to dawn on you that this is the way it'll always be. He'll just lie around, watch TV, steal from you and Guster and eat anything he can get his hands on. He'll never pursue cases for his agency. Ninety percent of their work came from the SBPD, not private cases."_

"_Wait a minute; Leo Quinn was a private case." Leo Quinn: the man whose complex machinations had led to all of this departmental chaos. Bastard._

"_Which quickly became a police case when the bodies started piling up."_

"_But it started _out_ as a private case."_

"_From someone whose plan was to fake his own death and frame someone else for murder. Not exactly your _typical_ client."_

"_Look, what is your point? I'm trying to help you get back to the detective squad."_

"_And there was a time when I would have believed it was for me, O'Hara."_

_She gaped. "What the hell? Of course it's for you. It's for me too. I miss my partner." She missed him every day, whether they were working cases together or griping over bad coffee. _

"_You miss Spencer's occasional income. When he forced his way into our cases, he got paid; when he made money, he could help with rent and food. Now it's just you, and you're feeling what Guster must have felt all these years: like you've been saddled with a leechboy who just keeps getting bigger and bigger and—"_

"_Stop it!" She put her hands to her cheeks, feeling their heat. "That's not fair. I know you're upset about what Trout did to us, but it's not right to punish me for it."_

"_I'm just telling you what I see. You want me here because it means we're that much closer to getting Karen back, and once she's back, she'll inevitably let Spencer force his way in, so Psych gets paid, and he can support himself. Not that he would, but he could."_

_Juliet glowered. "You're being a bastard."_

"_Heard that before."_

"_Don't you _want_ to get your job back?"_

_Carlton didn't answer._

"_Don't you want us to be partners?" she persisted. She did. More than anything else in the world these days. Carlton was the center point of her work life, even if she did want to smack him upside the head right now._

_He was still silent, the blue shifting in color from uncertain to thoughtful to… _

"_Well?"_

"_Honestly, O'Hara, I don't know."_

_She could not have been more shocked. "Why would you say that?"_

_Carlton paced away from her. "When Trout let us have it over in Karen's office, I wanted it to be Spencer's fault. Most things are, after all." He went to the window and looked out into the parking lot, the sunlight etching his profile. "But the truth is, I made my own choices. Yeah, he's a pain in the ass and yeah, he provokes me like nobody else, but I _chose_ to try to choke the son of a bitch. I can't always rise above temptation, and you know better than anyone else how many times I do rise above it." He glanced at her now. "Likewise, you chose to lose your cool. You didn't lay hands on him, but only because I got there first."_

_She nodded slightly. No argument there. If she'd been closer to Shawn, it would have been _her_ hands around his throat._

"_And you chose to let him flaunt your relationship in the workplace."_

"_That is not true!" she exclaimed. _

"_No? How did you react when he called you 'sweetie' right there in front of Trout, the man who was deciding whether we still had jobs? Hell, he slapped you on the ass in front of everyone in Billy Lipps' house. Did you tell him hands off? Did you tell him to address you professionally? No. You just squealed like Betty Boop and let him go on."_

"_Betty—I did _not_! How am I supposed to stop him from saying anything?"_

"_By telling him," he said flatly. "As many times as necessary and holding him accountable. The man supposedly loves you so he ought to show some respect right along with it."_

"_We're talking about Shawn, Carlton. He doesn't operate by the same rules as anyone else."_

"_That doesn't mean he gets to do whatever he wants without consequences. It doesn't mean you should let him run roughshod over you as a cop. Or as his girlfriend."_

"_He doesn't," she began, but even to her own ears, her tone was uncertain._

"_Yeah he does, and everyone sees it. Everyone but you, maybe. Maybe you tell yourself if you don't chew him out in public everyone will think you're the mature one but what you really look like is a doormat."_

_Embarrassment mixed with anger. "You are Crossing. A. Line."_

_He shrugged. "I've heard that before too. But here's why I said I didn't necessarily want you back as a partner."_

_Her heart was thundering in her chest. Clutching the back of the chair, she took a deep breath, hoping to ease back from the edge of this disaster._

"_It's because I… don't really like you anymore."_

_She opened her mouth but no sound came out. The silence around them was huge._

_Carlton swallowed, and yet he spoke with resolution. "You're the best partner I ever had. The best friend, even. And I know I was important to you once; I saw it for myself when we watched Spencer's stupid Bigfoot movie. It was right on camera for everyone to see." _

_His eyes were so damned blue, and he was like stone. _

"_I loved you for a long time. I know you knew."_

_Juliet froze. All the heat in her drained away and she fought not to tremble. _

You are not hearing this. What you knew, you knew privately, and it's not for public statement.

_He went on tiredly, "But ever since you got involved with Spencer, you've let your standards drop as a cop. You let him cut too many corners. You let him lie to you again and again. You let him trample over your feelings. You let him be all the things you said you were done with when you wrote your con artist father out of your life. I don't know why you broke up a few months ago but for a little while I saw something in you I hadn't seen in awhile: resolve. Character. Determination to get out of the Spencer swamp and back to who you were. But then it was over again. You went right back to him. You started lying to me. You started becoming his shadow rather than his girlfriend. You let him belittle you, interfere with cases to the point of nearly blowing them completely—like your undercover op with the dating site—and I finally see how it is, and how it's always going to be. The truth is I'll probably always love you a little but I just don't like you anymore, because it's _not_ all his fault. He's a master con artist but without a patsy, he's got no power. You give him the power because despite being a cop and despite knowing better because you're the _daughter_ of a con artist, you let him play you like everyone else. Honestly, O'Hara, you're just a version of Guster he can sleep with."_

_Juliet let out a long, shaky breath, her gaze locked to his and her emotions a wild mix of shock, anger, and hurt._

"_Before you tell me I'm nothing to write home about, yeah, I know that. If I get out of here without you slapping my face it'll be a freaking miracle. But you wanted to know, and now you do." He headed for the door, and turned back to see her still standing there mute. "You can write me a nasty letter. I'm sure there won't be anything in it I haven't heard before, and that includes the part where you say you never want to see my sorry ass again." _

_With a mock salute, he opened the door and paused a moment in the hall to take a breath._

_Trout called down from his office door. "Lassiter! In here now!"_

_He went unhurriedly, ignoring Trout's pointed glance at his watch as well as the curious looks from the others in the bullpen. _

_Juliet unfroze herself long enough to grab her keys and head out._

**. . . . **

**. . . **

She ended up at a parking lot near the beach, hands gripping the steering wheel, pulse still racing, heart still hammering, skin almost clammy.

Sitting now on the bench—and as the sharp wind died down—some of the vast ocean's calm started to soothe her.

But still those words replayed, and Carlton's cool blue assessing gaze was relentless even in his absence.

He didn't like her anymore.

_Big deal_, she thought defiantly. _He doesn't like anyone_.

He used to like her.

_Big deal. Most people like me._

Carlton seldom followed the crowd.

_He liked you in _spite_ of everyone else liking you._

He barely liked Buzz: and who the hell didn't like Buzz?

_I _am_ a good cop. I have _not_ let Shawn steer me into madness._

A dozen incidents proving this a lie came to mind and she shoved them away ruthlessly. Shawn was a special case. Not because he was her boyfriend, but because his special abilities were compromised by a total lack of common sense. It wasn't his fault. Not entirely.

_Shawn is an extremely intelligent guy, pushing forty, who _chooses_ to act the way he does. He is more than capable of—_

_Shut it. This is about Carlton, not Shawn._

Carlton knew from the beginning Shawn wasn't psychic.

_It took _you_ seven years to figure it out_.

_CARLTON_, she shouted internally, _just told you he didn't like you and thinks you've become a bad cop_.

That was the main thing, right there. No like, no respect.

_He can go to hell. _

It was that simple. Because he was wrong. He was upset by what Trout did to them. He was upset about the other patrol officers pranking him. He was upset by the loss of his job title and standing. He was upset, and he didn't mean it.

Damn sharp wind, making her eyes burn again.

_Carlton doesn't say what he doesn't mean._

But Carlton was wrong a lot about people. He wasn't good reading people unless they were criminals; then he was spot-on most of the time. _She_ wasn't a criminal; she was his partner. He didn't understand her because he didn't understand women, and he didn't understand Shawn, and if he really _had_ ever… loved… her, he couldn't have been capable of looking at her or her choices with an open mind.

How could he love her and say what he said?

_He _doesn't_ love you anymore._

_SO? YOU DON'T NEED HIM. You have Shawn._

Who lies. Who steals. Who manipulates.

_THIS IS NOT ABOUT SHAWN. Shawn loves me. _

"Enough," she said out loud, getting to her feet. "_Enough_."

_This_ was about a man she thought was her partner and friend telling her she didn't measure up to his crazy standards. He'd been unhappy for two months and he was taking it out on her because he couldn't take it out on Trout.

_I was the one who stood by him. I made excuses for him when he was rude. I counseled him on how to get along with people. I took the time to see beyond the scowl. _

_I was his _friend_, dammit. _

_And it's not my fault Trout demoted him. It's _not_. And any problems he had with me as a cop or his partner he should have told me about a long time ago, not today because he got doused with paint. _

_This is not right. _

_And I will not take it._

"He can go to hell," she told the ocean, and went back to work.

**. . . .**

**. . . **

She hadn't been in the station long, resolutely focused on the case file on her screen, before she picked up that something was going on. Glancing around, she noted groups of two or three cops scattered throughout the bullpen, and Trout's door firmly shut.

Through the mostly-closed blinds she could see that odious man pacing. Occasionally he would stride to the desk and pick something up and then toss it down again, but she couldn't see what it was.

Miller passed by with a mug, and with his back to her at the coffee bar he said, "So. You heard about Lassiter?"

"It's paint," she said shortly, not turning either. "Not acid."

"Not that."

Juliet jabbed at the enter key savagely. "I don't know anything about Lassiter, and right now, Miller, I really do not care."

He was quiet a moment. "Okay. But you might want to know this."

"Doubtful." She finally looked over her shoulder at him. "I do want to know what's up with Trout."

"Lassiter," he said meaningfully.

"I _don't_ want to talk about Lassiter." She got up and started toward the copier, not that she had anything to copy, and Miller followed her over there. "_What_?"

"He quit."

"Who quit?" She was fussing with the paper feed. No reason. Made her look busy.

"_Lassiter_ quit."

Juliet straightened up and stared at him. "The hell he did."

"After he stomped on Trout's timer."

"The hell he did," she repeated, because Miller was insane if he expected her to believe Career Cop Carlton would ever quit, although stomping on a timer she could easily imagine and even applaud.

Miller sipped from his mug. "Happened right after you left."

She couldn't process this. It was crazy. It was one more bit of crazy stemming from the crazy that was Carlton Lassiter.

It was not her problem. _HE_ was not her problem. Not anymore. He made that clear and she'd gotten the message perfectly.

"Good," she said icily. "Glad he's gone."

Miller's jaw dropped. "But—"

She cut him off. "Excuse me. _I'm_ finishing up the witness statement reviews in the Greenwood case. Let me know when you're done reviewing the forensics."

Stalking back to her desk, she immersed herself in the files as if there was any chance she wasn't already sucked into the crazy herself.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

A different kind of crazy was waiting for her at home.

Now that Rachael was away in England, Gus and Shawn were joined at the hip again, and when she walked up the steps into the living room, she found them sprawled on the sofa playing some video game and berating each other. Tortilla chips and soda bottles, an empty box of pizza and the remains of what might have been homemade nachos were spread across the coffee table.

"Jules!" Shawn cried out, not taking his eyes off the screen. "Would you quick call the Noodle House and see if they're still running that special on moo goo Guy Pearce?"

"Gai pan," Gus corrected him, shoving him slightly on the sofa.

"No, thanks." Juliet went through to the bedroom, ignoring Shawn's plaintive cries and Gus' muffled protests as more shoving evidently took place.

With the door closed behind her, she changed out of her work clothes and brushed her hair and tried not to think about Carlton.

The bastard.

Cold, unfeeling—how could he quit? How could he just give up like that?

By all accounts he'd been doing great out in the field—not that she'd ever doubted he would—and all they had to do was wait out Trout's stay. Scuttlebutt had it that Trout seldom roosted anywhere longer than four months. He was like a plague of locusts unto himself, ravaging police departments making 'improvements' before moving on to the next locale with his damn egg timer.

But no. No. Carlton, the selfish bastard she'd tried to be a friend to all these years, had just gone all petty and whiny-ass and _quit_.

Just as well, she thought, slamming the brush down. Not like she wanted his sorry self-serving ass back as her partner, not after today.

Fine. _She_ would stay the course. She would do the best damn job she could, even if it meant freezing to death in Cold Cases, until Trout moved on and the dust settled over whatever was left of the mess he'd made of the SBPD.

And Carlton could do whatever the hell he wanted as an ex-cop. As her ex-partner. As her damned ex-friend.

Shawn burst into the room. "Jules! Sweetums!" He put his arms around her from behind and squeezed, nuzzling her cheek with Cheez-It-scented breath.

"What's left for me to eat?" She extricated herself from his arms, moving to hang up her blazer and put her heels in the closet.

"Well, it turns out Noodle House is now running a special on Chop Suey Chopsticks. With every two orders you get three sets of chopsticks and four eggrolls. Gus says he's in. You in?"

"Pass." She picked up the laundry basket with the clothes she'd asked him to fold and put away, and dumped it on the bed.

He leaned against the dresser, arms folded, giving her his best _I know everything_ look. "You had a bad day."

"Yup."

"What did Trout do?"

"Nothing."

"Sure about that? Because with Lassie out on patrol, it's really only Trout who can get on your nerves these days."

Juliet turned to him, one of his t-shirts in her hand. "Really? He's the only one?"

His glance fell to the shirt. "Pretty sure."

"What did you do all day other than put up laundry?" she inquired pleasantly.

Went right over his head.

"Ooh! Gus and I designed a rocket ship which will only travel between churro stands. It's still in the early stages, but if we can talk the churro stand guys into maintaining one position long enough, we think we can get funding."

She stared at him.

He blinked. "We also mapped every popsicle cart in a three-mile radius."

"So you were busy, then. Good thing Gus is unemployed like you." She brushed by him with an armload of towels.

"Jules, you know _I_ have a job. Gus, well, he's in transition, but I have a full-time job."

"_Gus_ has a full-time job as a pharmaceutical rep. _You_ have a failing detective agency."

Outraged, he followed her into the bathroom. "Failing? What are you talking about, failing?"

"Have you had a case in the last six weeks?" She was being generous: he hadn't had a case since the Leo Quinn debacle. Most of the time, if he went to the office at all, he left the 'closed' sign on the door.

"Vacation! Everyone's entitled to a little vacation. Besides, I'm still recovering from what Trout did to me."

Juliet closed the towel cupboard door firmly and faced Shawn. "What he did to you?"

"He cut the heart out of my business," he said sadly.

"The only reason," she said as she advanced—and was grimly satisfied that he backed up, "that Trout had any effect on your business is that all your business came from scrounging cases from the SBPD." She kept moving, and he kept backing up, into the bedroom and up against the bed. "Karen Vick got suspended. Carlton got demoted. Buzz got _fired_. I'm stuck in Cold Cases. But _you're_ the one who needs a two-month 'vacation'?"

Turning away before he could say a word, she left the room and went to the kitchen, opening the fridge in hopes there'd be even one bit of food for her. Even a limp slice of cheese would do.

Gus came in carrying the empty pizza box. "The Chinese should be here in fifteen."

"The British in twenty." She closed the fridge door. "Is there anything else to eat at all?"

He set the box on the counter, and Shawn sidled in behind him. "What are you in the mood for?"

"I'm in the mood to have Shawn do some housework and shopping while I'm at work all day," she snapped, eyeing the man in question.

"She had a bad day," Shawn explained in a stage whisper to Gus.

"Don't be condescending, Spencer."

"Spencer." He smirked. "Are you channeling Lassie now?"

Gus snickered, but only briefly; his expression turned to fear when he saw how Juliet glared at Shawn.

But she sucked it up and said nothing, forcing them to move out of the way so she could escape the kitchen and go… where?

From the bedroom she heard her cell ringing: maybe she was in luck and there'd been a horrific crime requiring all hands on deck, and she could get out of this place which was more Shawn's Clubhouse than their _home_.

Snatching it up, she saw to her surprise that it was Harris Trout's name on the screen.

"O'Hara."

"Interim Chief."

He chuckled. "Starting eight a.m. tomorrow, you're the new Head Detective of the SBPD. Trial basis until you piss me off, which I'm sure you will."

Juliet was silent. This was a trick. And she didn't _want_ the job.

"Oh, and also on a trial basis, you can bring in Psycho in on cases at my approval. They screw up even once—hell, _you_ screw up even once—and they're not only re-fired, they're in jail. Bye now."

She listened to dead air for a long time until she remembered to disconnect, and then she just sat on the bed frowning until the damned Chinese came.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	2. Chapter 2: Smoke And Mirrors

**CHAPTER TWO: SMOKE AND MIRRORS**

**. . . . .**

_[note: as with CH1, the italicized section comes largely from my one-shot "Burning Bridges."]_

**. . . .**

**. . . **

Carlton's day had been bad.

It started out okay, with a relatively peaceful morning patrol, but then he came back to the station at lunch to find his 'friends' had thoughtfully rigged his locker door to dump bright red paint all over him.

He thought he'd made a pretty good speech about it, reminding them he hadn't become Head Detective so young without having some pretty good observational and memory skills. They already knew no one moved up into the detective squad without considerable talent… and it helped to have the respect of the Lead Dog. Since he fully intended to reclaim his position as said Lead Dog, they'd do well to remember _this_ as the moment they'd all completely screwed themselves over. (It had earned him a satisfying round of silence and dawning recognition of idiocy on their parts.)

Then he went upstairs, inexplicably clashed with Juliet in a very big and very permanent way, and went down the hall to stomp on Trout's timer and quit his job.

Not how he expected the day to move along.

In his defense, he hadn't _intended_ to stomp on the timer. Or quit.

But things had a way of making themselves clear where Trout was concerned.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_Trout slammed the office door shut behind him. "Care to explain the paint?"_

"_No."_

"_Ah. Then let me rephrase. Explain the paint."_

_Carlton looked at the man who held his professional fate in his hands—hell, had been _playing_ with it. "No."_

_One eyebrow went up. "I see. Interesting. This _would_ be my first opportunity to write you up for insubordination, but as you know, I hate paperwork. I'll just have to extend your time in the uniform. Maybe add foot patrol."_

Count. One. Two. Three.

"_That seems fair."_

_Trout laughed. "You're entertaining, I'll give you that."_

"_Delighted."_

"_But don't push it."_

"_Wouldn't matter if I did."_

_Trout let out a low whistle. "Nice. What else you got lined up in your cesspool of resentment and bitterness?"_

"_I won't know until you push the right buttons." _

"_Oh, I think I can push as many as you have, _Lassie_." He grinned. "Shouldn't you be calling me 'sir'?"_

_Carlton stared at him. "In what universe?"_

"_This one," he shot back. "The only one you know. The one in which _if_ you play your cards right—and I do mean if—you get back your job in a few months. _Maybe_."_

"_Sounds like a crapshoot to me." _Ma'am_, he added silently._

_With a grin, Trout settled into his chair. "It kind of is. Good call." He nudged the ever-present egg timer slightly. _

"_Is there anything else?"_

"_Stay away from the bullpen and O'Hara. She's not your partner anymore and won't ever be again if I have anything to say about it, which, may I remind you, I do."_

_Given that he'd just sliced at the very heart of that partnership himself, Carlton felt this was somewhat anticlimactic. He merely met Trout's gaze impassively. "I'm sure you'll continue to make decisions of stellar quality for the SBPD."_

_Trout's eyes narrowed. "Your days could well be numbered, _Lassie_. Hear that ticking? It could be for you."_

_Carlton leaned forward and in one move swept the timer off the desk savagely. It flew several feet and crashed into the wall, landing with a squelched 'ding' on the carpet. _

_On his feet at once, Trout started snapping but Carlton overrode him._

"_I checked you out, you know. I found out you used to be a good cop and a good consultant. You fixed a lot of problems for a lot of police departments. But somewhere along the line you went insane. You started making changes based on your mood. On your diet. On that damned timer. And I don't know if you can come back from the insanity, but I do know this."_

_Trout eased back into his chair, radiating smugness, looking rather as if he were about to start watching a particularly amusing TV show. _

"_I screwed up with Spencer that day. We all screwed up, either in condoning his behavior or covering it up. But what you've done is beyond punitive. It's just assery. Suspending Karen Vick based on your snap judgment over a case it took you fifteen minutes to hear about, downgrading me, punishing O'Hara—that's all complete crap and you know it." He held up his hands. "But you've got all the power, Trout."_

"_Yes, I do." Smug. So smug._

"_Yes, you do. And I know nothing would make you happier than for me to give you cause to fire me. Because that'll look good, won't it? Firing a twenty-year veteran of the force, one with multiple commendations, because he broke your little egg timer?"_

_Trout said coolly, "Your personnel folder isn't all commendations."_

"_No, but if you look at the write-ups, you'll see they're almost all about the alleged over-use of my service weapon. The rest are about Spencer, and your short time with that narcissistic whackaloon asshat should have made it perfectly clear why any semi-sane person would lose it now and then."_

"_Can't argue with you there. What's next in the big speech?"_

_Carlton went over to the egg timer and stomped on it, eliciting a genuine gasp from Trout._

"_That's enough, you son of a bitch." He was on his feet again and pissed off, but kept his distance all the same._

_Carlton reached for his weapon, and Trout's eyes widened. But all he did was lay it on the desk, along with his badge. "You win. I've been valuable to the department and I've done damned good work, but I'm not hanging around to be your punching bag, because I deserve better and the city deserves better. In the morning I'll start the retirement paperwork, and if you screw with me on that, I _will_ involve the media. I'm sure they'll love hearing about how the mayor's special consultant is forcing experienced and dedicated police officers out."_

_Trout hesitated only a moment. "You don't have that many friends in the outside world, and the media's had fun with you before."_

"_Yeah? I also have copies of my performance reviews as well as all those commendations, and I'm told my pretty blue eyes can be a real asset when I smile big and play nice," he added acidly. "Just stay out of my way and no one has to know you teared up over the egg timer."_

_At the door, with Trout still agape, he turned to add one more word._

"Sir_."_

**. . . .**

**. . .**

He didn't want to replay the conversation with Juliet.

He did anyway, but he didn't want to.

She was…

He sighed, rolling over in bed and punching the pillow hard.

She was lost to him.

But then again, she'd been lost to him for a long time.

He had some hope—a renewal of faith in their friendship and partnership—during Spencer's idiotic Bigfoot farce, but it faded even before Trout's reign of terror began. His time away from work while he healed had been time mostly spent alone, because Juliet pretty much had to _sneak_ her visits in to stop Spencer from tagging along, and Carlton didn't want the gelhead in his condo any more than necessary.

Really, it was just as well he'd gone off on Juliet and quit in the same day. Cleanest break of all.

Now he just had to figure out what the hell to do for the rest of his life… and how to do it without Juliet.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet didn't say anything to Shawn or Gus about Trout's call. She had to mull it over, and she needed to talk to the pushy son of a bitch to figure out the real situation.

Certainly this 'promotion' had nothing to do with her actual abilities. It was a game. _Everything_ was a game with Trout.

She just wanted to hear him admit it.

In the morning, leaving Shawn snoring in their tousled bed (occasionally murmuring about spring rolls), she went to the station, stopping automatically at the Starbucks on the way and hating the instant pang she felt that Carlton wasn't with her.

Carlton, she was _not_ thinking about. He was still a bastard who'd tossed her friendship aside because of his own selfish petty upsets, and she was done with him.

Yes. _Done_.

Out of the corner of her eye, a tall, black-haired man moved toward the sugar and sweetener and she started because it was… _no, idiot. It is not Carlton_.

Taking her coffee from the barista with a snarl her _ex_-friend would have been proud of, she stomped back out to the car and downed half the scalding elixir before she even got the engine started.

At the station, she went first to Miller and apologized for snapping at him yesterday. She asked what else he knew about Carlton's rapid exit and learned his intention was to retire. (Apparently someone passing by Trout's office while they were 'talking' managed to move very slowly and listen very closely… and it helped that the entire bullpen had gone silent the minute the door was closed between them and their former Head Detective, a man Miller cheerfully admitted they missed like hell.)

(Juliet did not admit to missing him. She would have yesterday morning, but that was a lifetime ago.)

Trout was eating one of his twenty daily power bars (while smiling very oddly at a stack of case files on his desk) when she rapped on his office door.

"Detective O'Hara!" he said brightly, brushing crumbs from his jacket. "Delighted you could make it in." He glanced at his watch.

She wasn't late, so she ignored the implied snark. "I have some questions about your phone call last night."

"Really? I'm surprised. I thought it was all very clear."

"Actually, it's not. I'd like to know why you made this assignment now. I've been in Cold Cases for two months and—"

"Where you've done well, and now it's time for a change. Besides, Lassiter's off the force so it's not like he's waiting to reclaim the job." He rolled his eyes. "As if he ever _could_ have."

_Steady, girl._

"Nonetheless, the timing—"

"Well, of course it's because he quit." He got up, moving around the desk to stand in front of her, arms folded. "Of course it is. A big duh for you, O'Hara. See, now that I've dealt with the first half of the problem, I'm free to see about the second half."

Juliet drew herself in, keeping her expression absolutely neutral, although she was sure he could read the dislike in her eyes. "Pardon me. I was under the impression I was a good detective, not a 'problem.'"

He chuckled. "You need to be careful about trusting 'impressions,' darlin'."

_Son of a_ …

"_You_ need to be careful how you address a female officer," she retorted.

"Touché." He smirked. "Anyway, I do have one adjustment to your assignment. I've decided to be lenient with the psycho boys."

_Stay cool. _

"Are you referring to Psych?"

"Bonus points for you, swee—_Detective_. It goes like this. I say whether they get hired. They piss me off one time, they get a warning. A second time, you get a warning and their fee is docked. A third time, they're off the case and you get a write-up. _If_ I approve them being called in on a second case, the first offense lands them in jail and you on suspension."

Nothing would have pleased her more than to slap his smug-ass face hard enough to send it into the next zip code.

He gestured to the pile of folders on his desk. "That's just a_ fraction _of the cases they've worked on. Officially everything looks okay, but I'm focusing on the witness statements and interview transcripts. _That's_ where the meat of the details about Spencer's idiotic behavior can be found, and sister, there is _so_ much meat. _So_ much."

Juliet stared at him.

Trout smiled… like a shark. "It's a veritable smorgasbord of carnivorous delight."

In slow motion, but with perfect clarity, Juliet finally understood his plan. He already knew Shawn was irrepressible. He knew no one could control him.

He was counting on Shawn being the catalyst for _her_ downfall and eventual departure—or ouster—from the department.

And here she'd thought _Carlton_ was the worst bastard she knew right now.

But she would give Trout nothing for his megalomaniacal enjoyment. Moving to the door, she only said, "I'll start reviewing the squad's active cases as soon as I familiarize myself with the current job description for Head Detective."

Trout laughed. "Right. It's not as if you ever expected to be in that position. Oh," he added, once she was out in the hall. "One more thing."

Instead of telling her, he joined her and gestured for her to head through the bullpen toward her workstation. Stopping in front of it, he pointed over at Carlton's two-months' empty desk.

"Sir?"

"You need to move over there."

_Hell no. Not _Carlton's_ desk. _

She reminded herself yet again to feign calm. "Why?"

"It's the Head Detective's desk," he said as if she were a simpleton.

"Actually, I have a pretty good view of the bullpen from _my_ desk, which might serve me better as I'm learning—"

He interrupted with a brisk, "Don't care. Move your crap to Lassiter's desk. Make it snappy." Whistling merrily, he meandered away and back to his office.

Juliet didn't know what she hated more: him, or having to play his petty little psychological games. Trout might have told her it was so he could keep an eye on her—since his office windows were a straight line from Carlton's desk—but she knew it was more than that. She knew he wanted her to feel guilty about taking over the workspace of her former partner.

Well, she didn't. She didn't feel guilty at all. She was going to be much too busy trying to keep her job to worry about the 'feelings' of her ex-friend.

Whom she dearly wished she could talk to right now, dammit to hell and Detroit and back.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton got up, had coffee and toast, read the paper without reading it at all, and then opened his laptop so he could file the retirement papers online. He could print them and go drop them off at City Hall, but he didn't feel like going down there today. It was too close to the police station, and he needed a bit of distance if he was going to seriously contemplate a life after SBPD.

An hour after he clicked on the final 'submit' button, his phone rang.

It was the DA, and in the few seconds before Carlton answered, he wondered if there was a setback in the trial he was scheduled to testify in next month.

"Lassiter," Clark said almost cautiously. "How you doing?"

Why would he care? They weren't friends. Clark had tried to have him censured at least once.

"What do you need? Has the Raleigh trial been postponed?"

"No, everything's fine. I… uh… heard a rumor about you retiring."

Ahhhh. Word did get around fast. "Yeah. Is that a problem?"

"It's unthinkable, is what it is. Aren't you, like, in your early forties?"

"Forty-four in February. Got my twenty years in before that."

Clark sighed. "Look, I heard this Trout's a real ass. Do I need to have a word with the mayor?"

"Over _me_? You'd be wasting your breath."

"_Yeah_, over you. You're an ass too, Lassiter, but you're top drawer when it comes to cops and no fishface should be allowed to run you off."

Carlton took a moment to register this was actually a compliment. "Thanks. But like I said, the mayor would tell you to save your breath. Trout's his golden boy these days."

An un-muffled curse came through the phone. "Well… what are your plans? You can't exactly shuffle off into the old cops' retirement home just yet."

"I don't know what I'm going to do," he admitted. "I'd like to stay in law enforcement but I know it can't be in Santa Barbara."

"Don't assume. There's a few people around here who might be willing to pull strings."

He knew better. "If so, it's only because they hate Trout more."

Clark laughed. "Take what you can get, bud. And you're still testifying at my Raleigh trial."

"Of course. Anything to get that low-life, scum-sucking piece of crap off the streets."

"Uh, he's a school principal who skimmed lunch money from rich kids."

"Potayto, tomahto," he retorted. "All criminals are low-life, scum-sucking crap."

"And that's what I like about you, Lassiter. It's all black and white."

"That's right. Because gray sucks."

Gray did suck, which is _why_ he valued black and white so much: clarity. Order. Sense.

None of which he'd demonstrated yesterday, although he would never in a quadrillion years regret offing the damned egg timer.

The phone rang quite a bit more as the morning progressed; he took some of the calls, noting that none of them were from Juliet, which was no surprise.

He'd made _that_ a black-and-white situation too yesterday.

Mostly… hell, _all_ black.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet reluctantly moved her work paraphernalia over to Carlton's desk—_no, your desk. YOUR desk_—and started going through the active cases and assignments to see what was going on in the department. Trout had handled some of Carlton's duties, but not enough of them.

She glowered at anyone who approached.

She continued not telling Shawn, who'd texted numerous times. To get through to him about Trout's evil intentions, she'd have to talk to him face-to-face. Most likely with her weapon drawn.

Trout strode out of his office mid-afternoon and barked her name.

Juliet got up—not scurrying, which she was sure he'd prefer—and followed him toward the main entrance. About to ask what he wanted, she was distracted by the sight of reporters and cameras outside at the bottom of the steps.

Stopping just short of the doors, Trout turned and gave her that shark-like smile. "The news got out about Lassiter's retirement. They want a statement."

"I'm sure you'll do fine," she said stiffly.

"Not me, sister. I'll do the hors d'oeuvres, but you're providing the main course. Come on!"

He had the nerve to grasp her arm and drag her a foot until she jerked free, but by then the doors were open and he was smiling magnanimously at the assembled media folk.

Questions came fast and furious, and he ignored them all, raising his hands to say only, "Former Head Detective Carlton Lassiter chose to end his career yesterday, but the Santa Barbara Police Department will nonetheless go on, and most likely perfectly well. This is new Head Detective Juliet O'Hara, who has assumed Lassiter's duties. Detective?"

It was one of those slow-motion moments.

Carlton had gladly done all their public speaking. Juliet hated the cameras and was generally short with anyone holding a notebook, pen or recorder.

And Trout knew this. Somehow, he knew this.

_What is Trout's game… what is the game…._

_He wants me to look bad? He wants me to follow his lead and make neutral remarks about Carlton, which in itself will raise more questions?_

_What is the GAME!?_

"I'm not sure anyone can properly fill Detective Lassiter's shoes," she said abruptly. "He was the best of the best and I'm extremely fortunate to have been his partner for eight years."

_Even if he's a pain in the ass I may never speak to again._

Someone yelled, "Wasn't he demoted recently?"

Juliet stared.

Beside her, she could feel Trout's smirk.

_This was what he wanted._

"That had nothing to do with his skills as the head detective," she managed.

"Then why was he demoted? Did it have anything to do with Chief Vick's suspension?"

"You'll have to ask Interim Chief Trout. He made all those decisions."

Trout's smirk faded, but not for long, and she knew she might pay for this later but what the hell did he expect? _She_ hadn't demoted Carlton or suspended Vick or fired Buzz. _He_ did all that, and _he_ should be held accountable.

"I'm afraid personnel matters are confidential," he said with snake-oil smoothness. "Suffice to say we expect great, great things from Detective O'Hara."

"What's Lassiter doing next?"

The question was aimed at Juliet. They didn't care about her; she was nothing to them yet. They wanted to know why Lassiter was out and what the real story was.

Another voice a second later: "Have you spoken to him about taking his job?"

She was stung. "I didn't take his job. Interim Chief Trout gave it to me this morning. It's been vacant for two months."

"Have you spoken to Lassiter?" the voice pressed.

"No, but everything I know about being a good detective, I learned from Carlton Lassiter, and when I do talk to him, I'll remind him how much I valued being his partner and that the SBPD will never be the same without him. Thank you." She turned and walked inside, ignoring further questions along with Trout's hiss that she could come back.

_Pretty nice speech about someone you claim to be 'done' with._

She mentally shrugged that off: she _had_ learned everything from him, and she did value their partnership. But it was over, and boo frickin' hoo.

Trout found her at her new desk a few minutes later, and his scowl was deep. "In case you were wondering, Detective, it is _never_ permissible for you to walk away from a press conference."

"That wasn't a press conference. That was an ambush." She opened the desk drawer to retrieve a pen, wondering if she could use it to stab him without anyone else noticing.

_Who are you worried about? Most of the squad would help you cover it up, maybe with a story about Trout slipping on the ruins of his egg timer and falling eye-first into a loaded pen._

His annoyance faded. "Yeah—wasn't it great?"

Juliet glared. "No."

"We're going to get along just fine, O'Hara," he said with a grin.

"Are we?" Because she didn't think so.

"Sure." He fiddled with his tie and grinned again. "If you last the week."

In the moments before he turned and strode away again, she noted the coldness of his pale blue eyes.

She'd often seen such coldness in Carlton's eyes, but it was different. His gaze could be steely, often icy—but behind it there was always such _heat_. Carlton was so _alive_, and so much was going on behind the blue. As still and quiet as he could be, he was always, always almost thrumming with intensity and emotion and his own internal struggle for control. It made those rare revelations of sweetness ten times sweeter, and his genuine laughter ten times more endearing.

Trout was just cold. No life inside. Just whirring gears and programming designed to screw with people for his own amusement.

The road ahead was going to be very difficult.

And this time, when the little voice said _I wish I could talk to Carlton right now_, she didn't even tell it to shut up.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	3. Chapter 3: Here, Fishy Fishy

_**CHAPTER THREE: HERE, FISHY FISHY**_

**. . . . **

**. . .**

At five, and having stopped answering the phone once reporters started calling (and why were they calling? what was the big deal about a cop quietly retiring?), Carlton settled down to watch the news.

Which is where it was made clear to him why they were calling.

It wasn't quite the lead story, but it was close: Juliet on the steps, Trout smirking at her side, and _his_ name being bandied about as if his resignation was an admittance of some unspecified crime.

He was mesmerized by the mix of expressions on Juliet's lovely—and yet drawn—face, and didn't doubt the sincerity of her words about him. But she was clearly angry (at him? Trout? both?), resentful and uncomfortable.

And now she had his job.

The instant pinprick of jealousy/regret/envy immediately faded when two more words filled his head: _under Trout_.

_May God have mercy on her soul_.

His phone started ringing again; a glance showed him Henry Spencer's name on the screen.

_Dammit, don't be calling me _now_ while I'm puzzling over this._

"Hello, Henry. Yes, I retired. No, I didn't know anything about O'Hara's promotion. No, I—"

Henry interrupted. "Yeah, whatever. You want to go fishing?"

"Fishing?"

"Yes, fishing."

"That's why you called?"

"Isn't it the first thing I asked you?"

"Yeah, but we haven't fished together in years." Mostly because Henry was uber-critical about dumbass stuff.

"And it might have been another few years if I didn't strongly suspect you need to get out of town for a couple of days."

Carlton looked at his muted TV.

"Unless you _wanted_ to hang around waiting for a reporter to ask why your former partner didn't tell you she got your old job, and oh, by the way, what's the real reason you quit and can you give us the inside scoop on this Trout guy."

He had no plans to malign Trout until after his retirement was completely official. Even after, whatever he said would be discreet, to a highly select audience; Trout had far too much influence over the mayor for anyone in the department to be safe if he got pissed off. The least Carlton could do for his beleaguered former coworkers was not make their situation worse.

"Come on, Lassiter."

Yeah. This was a good idea.

"When did you want to leave?"

"How long will it take you to pack up what you need?"

"Give me an hour," he said decisively, "and come to the rear entrance of the building."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet got home to find Shawn sitting at the bottom of the stairs, eyes closed, swaying to a song blaring tinnily from his phone. She thought it was Depeche Mode (_Policy of Truth_? how ironic) but once he realized she was there, he shut it off.

Looking either blank or annoyed—it was hard to tell sometimes—he shoved the phone in his pocket and stood up. "Jules. Could there be a few things you haven't mentioned lately?"

She didn't like his tone. Not after a day full of Trout.

"Depends, Shawn. I _know_ I mentioned it would be nice if you went grocery shopping, took out the trash, put the laundry up and made the bed. Was there something else?" She went up the stairs and into the living room, Shawn following.

"Seriously. Lassie quit? And you're the new Head Detective? And you didn't tell me?"

She sank onto the sofa, kicking her shoes off. "Where's Gus?"

"He's still at his pretend job." He settled on the other end of the sofa, grabbing a pillow to hold like he always did. "So what up, dawg?"

"Carlton retired, Trout made me Head Detective, and I didn't tell you because it all happened really fast."

"You were on TV," he said accusingly.

Juliet laughed. "_You_ watched the news?"

"I did after Gus called to tell me you were on. Why'd Lassie quit?"

She shrugged. "I guess he just had enough Trout."

Shawn was puzzled. Head-tilted puzzled. "You… he didn't tell you? Or did he tell you but tell you not to tell me?"

Dizzying. "Like I said, it happened really fast."

"Well… when did he resign? And why didn't you tell me? I could have sent him a card or something. I've been thinking about taking up calligraphy."

"Shawn, don't bother Carlton." She put her feet up on the sofa between them, and he idly starting rubbing one of them. It should have been soothing, but instead she found it irritating.

"He wouldn't be _bothered_ by me expressing my genuine heartfelt regrets about his departure," Shawn said solemnly.

"You're right. But since you don't _have_ those, leave him alone."

He looked shocked. "What? Why would I want him to quit? He's like Winnie the Pooh compared to Trout."

_There_ was a comparison, but he was right. She pulled her foot away and sat up, shrugging off her jacket.

"You still haven't explained why you didn't tell me. I've been calling you all day. You could have mentioned it, even in a text."

"My day was a little busy. In fact, _all_ my days are busy, you know?" She tried valiantly to keep the annoyance out of her tone. "Look, Shawn, you've had a nice vacation these past months, but for me life got a lot harder. I've got a new boss who sucks, I lost my partner, I got stuck in Cold Cases, and today I was forced to talk to the press about something _I_ haven't even had time to absorb. Trout's an ass all the time, and then after work, I have to do the housework and pay all the bills for _two_ people. It wasn't the best summer of my life."

"Things'll get better, sweetie." He sounded so sincere.

She wondered if he even understood that he was part of her problem.

_And didn't Carlton himself theorize she was getting tired of the leech? _

_Pah. Never mind anything HE said._

"Something else did happen which I need to talk to you about, but Gus has to be here."

He tsked. "Honey, you can tell me anything. If it's something bad, you don't need Gus to protect you. That's my job." Again with the sincerity.

Honestly, he was so fricking clueless.

Juliet got up. "Ask him to come over. I'm going to go see if you bought any food today."

His face fell. "Oh. I thought you might have stopped by the store on your way home."

For a crystalline moment, she thought about yanking the pillow out of his lap and stuffing it in his left ear.

But he'd already moved on, pulling out his phone to text Gus. "G," he read as he keyed it in, "get here ASAP. J has news." He grinned. "I spelled it 'g n u s.'"

She smiled. Habit.

A moment later, the doorbell rang.

"Since you're up, sweetie, would you get that?"

Juliet stared at him, not moving.

With a dramatic sigh, he dragged himself off the sofa and went down to see who was at the door.

"Gus!" he exclaimed. "Damn, you must have finished the rocket ship design!"

"Or maybe I was on the sidewalk out front when you texted."

"Well what brings you by, my good man?"

"You just texted me to ask me to come over," Gus reminded him.

For a second, Shawn looked as if he was considering this to be truthful. "Well played, Burton. Well played."

They were coming up the stairs, and Juliet waited with folded arms for the farce to die down. "Have a seat, Gus. I need to talk to you both and I'm counting on _you_ to actually pay attention to what I'm saying."

"You can _always_ count on me," he agreed, and she hoped it was true this time. He and Shawn took opposite ends of the sofa, and she remained standing in the middle of the room.

"Listen carefully, and only to what I _say_. Don't make any assumptions and don't try to read between the lines, because there are no lines. What I'm about to say is exactly what I mean to say. You with me so far?"

"Yes," Gus said, nodding.

"Pizza later," Shawn agreed.

_Help me, Lord._

"Trout is willing to rehire you on a provisional basis."

Shawn was instantly on his feet, whooping and hollering and tossing couch pillows in every direction and then segueing into some sort of Indian war dance.

Juliet sighed and waited. Gus remained seated, because he wasn't quite the idiot her boyfriend could be sometimes.

Finally Shawn figured out he was alone in his celebration and stopped gyrating, arms falling to his sides. "What?"

"Sit down."

"How can I sit down? This is stellar news! You've achieved the impossible! You're like the love child of Wonder Woman and Xena The Warrior Princess!"

Gus shook his head. "That's not biologically possible, Shawn."

"Sit _down_," she said again, and finally Shawn complied reluctantly. "There are conditions. And he's a tricky bastard. You are meant to fail. Do you understand? You are meant to fail, so that _I _will have failed, and once I fail, he has an excuse to get rid of me."

Gus' mouth dropped open.

Shawn said confidently, "We won't fail. We've solved every case we ever got."

"Not that kind of failure."

"What other kind is there? We solve, we don't solve. Not that we ever don't solve. But we'll solve, and no one fails." He punched Gus in the arm. "Hear that, buddy? We're going back to work!"

"I don't think _you_ heard that, _buddy_," Gus retorted. "Let her talk."

"Thank you, Gus. Here's what Trout said. _He_ will decide whether you get hired. That means no trolling for cases, no turning up at crime scenes, no following patrol cars around to see where they go. You wait to be called. Period."

"We can do that," Gus said.

Now Shawn shook _his_ head. "We can't do that. Jules, come on, you know he'll never call us if it's up to him."

"Oh, he'll be calling." She felt nothing but grim saying it. "He will most definitely call you, because he wants you to be yourself."

"When am I not myself?" He grinned. "It's what makes me so much fun."

"It's what makes you so much fun for a guy like Trout to issue a warning to. The _second_ time you're yourself, your fee gets cut and I get a warning. The third time, you're off the case and I get a nastygram in my personnel file."

Shawn frowned.

Gus looked properly alarmed. "Juliet, we don't stand a chance."

"I know. But it doesn't stop there. Because then, see, he'll call you in for a second case. That time after Shawn is _himself_ once, you guys go to jail and I get suspended."

Shawn frowned. _Maybe his eyebrows are stuck_, she thought uncharitably.

Gus asked urgently, "So we should say no if we get called, right?"

Juliet hadn't actually thought of that, and found it mildly amusing—as if it would be so easy.

It was moot anyway, because Shawn stood up again. "No way. We get called, we go in, we save the day, end of story. I know how to behave."

They both stared at him.

"I _do_. Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Over the past eight years," she asked mildly, "how many times have you gotten in trouble with Carlton or Chief Vick for your behavior at crime scenes?"

"Bygones!"

"Shawn. You ran for mayor on a platform of gladiatorial justice."

"Come on, Jules, that was for a case!"

"All I want you to understand is this. The minute you run your mouth off, the minute you fudge any detail, break into any crime scene, or so much as lift a breath mint from a body, you're setting me up to get suspended. The minute you're _you_, Shawn, it starts to be over for _me_. You get it?"

Gus said solemnly, "I get it. Plus, we go to jail. _That_ I get much too well."

"Well, I don't get it, but I'll show you both I can do it. Jules, what's it got to do with you anyway?"

She was taken aback. "What do you mean? I'm the new Head Detective. If you work with me and keep pissing off the boss, it tells him I can't control the consultants."

"I'm not just a consultant," he reminded her. "You're not supposed to control me, sweetie, because we're equals. I'm your boyfriend. Your live-in. Your stud bunny. Your—" He stopped, noticing Gus had plugged up his ears.

"The fact that you _are_ my boyfriend makes it worse."

He ignored that. "I used to piss Lassie off all the time. What's the big deal? He handled it."

_Oh, God, this would never end._

"If by 'handled it' you mean he never killed you, it's because Chief Vick wouldn't let him. She protected you from _all_ the people who wanted to kill you. But Harris Trout doesn't want to protect you. He doesn't like you, Shawn. He's not going to like you. And he doesn't like me, either, so if he can use you as a tool to help him force me out, he will."

"Why the hell doesn't he like you?"

She threw her hands up in the air. "Gus!" she yelled, scaring him a little. "Do _you_ completely comprehend everything I've said?"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Do you think you can make a concerted effort to the probably hopeless task of getting Shawn to understand?"

"No, ma'am! I mean, I've got the concerted effort part down, but making him understand…" He trailed off. "Yeah. That's a problem."

_One more try. Just one._

Shawn, already losing interest, had spotted and was reaching for a can of Pringles which lay on the floor under the coffee table.

"Shawn, sweetie? If I lose my job, I can't pay any bills. I can't feed you. I can't let you have TiVo. We'll have to go live with Gus."

"You must be out of your damn mind," Gus muttered.

Shawn looked at the Pringles can, which was empty. "_Ohhh_…."

_Yeah. _That_ might do the trick._

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton was about to leave the condo with his fishing gear when his cell rang again, and even though he recognized it as a TV station's number, he decided to do something about a notion which had been flitting around his brain for the last hour.

"Detective Lassiter," the reporter began, relatively warmly.

She hoped he would make a statement about his recent retirement and the appointment of his former partner to his position as Head Detective.

He explained, also relatively warmly, that he had been reassigned out of the position two months ago, and Trout's decision to promote Detective O'Hara was made independently as well as subsequent to his decision to retire.

What was the reason for his reassignment out of the position earlier this year?

He debated, but chose wisely to say only that Interim Chief Trout had made the reassignment, among other reassignments, and she'd have to ask him what his reasons were.

Was it connected to the suspension of Chief Vick?

Again, she'd have to ask Trout.

_Damn, I don't even sound snarky._

Did he have any comment on the appointment of his former partner to his long-held position?

This was what he'd been waiting for.

"Yes, I do. I would like to say that Detective O'Hara is a fine person and a remarkably skilled member of the force. I'm extremely pleased she has this opportunity to move up, which is long overdue. She'll be even more of an asset to the city in her new position, and I couldn't possibly be more proud of her than I've already been for the past eight years."

Thank you, she said. Would he care to specify what _his_ future plans were?

He told her he'd let her know as soon as he made up his mind.

Then he cut it short, disconnected, picked up his gear and went fishing.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"Cachuma," Henry answered, when Carlton thought to ask where they were going. "I rented a yurt up there." He cast a sidelong glance at Carlton. "You okay with a yurt?"

"Yup. Theirs are right on the water." And it explained why Henry wasn't hauling the boat behind the rusty truck; boats couldn't be parked in the yurt areas and it'd be easy to rent something up there.

The Cachuma yurts weren't large, but if Henry pissed him off too fast he could always sleep outside under the stars. Might do it anyway; the weather was clear and it had been too long since he was out with nature instead of stuck in a patrol car or at a desk, in a uniform or suit.

"Gonna be great." Henry sounded satisfied.

Carlton watched the trees rolling by (bouncing by, the way the truck handled the road) for a few minutes. "Thanks, by the way."

Another sidelong glance. "No problem. I don't mind a little company now and then."

"How's Maddie?"

"Maddie? She's great. She's coming in next month for a visit."

"I… heard something about a possible reunion." He'd heard it from Guster, the slightly more reliable of the Goober Twins.

Henry laughed. "I don't know about that, but we've been enjoying time together now that, you know, the old familiar stresses of life are behind us."

He nodded as if he understood, but he didn't have a lot of experience with anyone wanting to spend time with him by choice.

Juliet used to, sometimes. Casual dinner after work, breakfast before… they used to do things together that were for them, not part of the job. He smiled at the passing trees, remembering arguments about coffee which were settled by visits to several dozen coffee shops to find which had the best; heated discussions about profiling which made them test each other by way of made-up bad guys with detailed histories to see which one of them could produce the most accurate character assessment based on the other's clues.

But then Spencer wormed his way fully into her life, and Carlton wasn't unreasonable: romantic relationships ate up free time. He didn't like that hers was with that idiot, but he did get it.

It was only when she turned into a lesser version of herself that he—but he refused to think about her any more tonight. She was part of his receding past, and okay, so it had only been about twenty-four hours: he knew when over was over. He'd learned it slowly and painfully with Victoria, and one of the lessons he'd taken home from his mandatory therapy sessions was how to start the process of letting go.

For better or worse, he'd started to let go of Juliet a long time ago.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Shawn was glued to a _Full House_ episode and repeating "Have mercy" sotto voce, so Juliet went to the bedroom to watch the late news. She didn't really want to see herself on camera but she was morbidly curious to know how the 'press conference' had been edited.

Fortunately, it was fairly bland. Her deer-in-the-headlights demeanor wasn't too bad, and one bonus was that Trout appeared especially washed-out in the afternoon sunshine.

What she wasn't prepared for was the reporter adding cheerfully that they'd scored a telephone comment from former Head Detective Carlton Lassiter—complete with inset file photo which did him justice and accentuated those damnably blue eyes.

His clear and steady voice praising her, filled her senses and brought tears to her eyes: not because of what he said, but that _he_ said it, and that it was _his_ voice, and she was still so angry and hurt yet somehow believed if she could just whack him upside the head he'd realize he was an idiot and they could get back to normal. Or _their_ normal anyway. Whatever could be normal in a Trout-infested world.

"Damn you, Carlton," she whispered, brushing a tear away, and replayed his comment several times until she knew she was being utterly maudlin. "Damn me too."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The yurt was surrounded by a circular deck, and the interior furnishings were pretty much the platform beds, a table and electrical outlets, but it was better than a tent (and certainly had more headroom). Outside, there was a firepit and access to water—and just a dozen yards away, the glorious blue lake. There was still light in the sky, and it was blessedly serene.

School had just started and it was mid-week, so they didn't see anyone else, and Carlton was relieved.

Henry had come prepared: he had steaks ready to grill, and potatoes to go with them, and they sat under the starlight eating like kings and talking of nothing. But Carlton knew this was a false calm. Nothing came to him for free, and he wasn't much surprised when Henry said casually, "So, what exactly happened with you and Juliet?"

Carlton looked at him skeptically. "Can I borrow the truck keys for a minute?"

Laughing, Henry knocked back the rest of his beer. "Nope. Did you think I was going to get up here and not grill _you_ along with the steak and fish?"

"Not really. But what makes you think something happened?" No need to make it _too_ easy for the busy bastard.

"You may recall I used to be a detective once."

"Long time ago. You might have lost your mojo."

"I'm Shawn's father."

"Wouldn't be bragging about that, Spencer." He took a slug of his own beer. "Can I at least have tonight to not think about crap?"

"All right, but you know what they say about crap."

"Yeah, it makes an ass out of you and me."

Henry laughed again and offered him another beer. "Just promise me a good story about that gasbag Trout and I might—_might_—let you off easy."

"Oh, I think we can work something out," he said grimly.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	4. Chapter 4: The Tests Begin

_**CHAPTER FOUR: THE TESTS BEGIN **_

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Before she left for work, Juliet went back to the bedroom and thumped Shawn very lightly upside the head. Love tap, really.

He barely stirred. "Mmph…"

She did it again, and he opened one bleary hazel eye. "Joosh."

"Shawn, please buy groceries today."

"Hmmkay."

"Shawn?"

"Joosh?"

"Please buy groceries today."

"Groshery?"

"Food."

"Mmm… kay."

"Things to put in the refrigerator."

"Wha?"

"Eat. You want to eat?"

"Nngg laterhon."

"Then you have to go to the store and buy some food. Okay?"

Whatever he said was muffled by the pillow as he tried to either drown her out or eat it.

"Shawn, please buy groceries today."

He turned his head but his eyes were closed. "Kay Joosh."

Looking him over, she thought about suggesting to him sometime that he _not_ go to bed with the gel still in his hair, because it really didn't hold up well during the night as he tossed, turned, snored, mumbled and made odd comments about hot dogs and smoothies.

She put a post-it note reading "GET GROCERIES" on the mirror in the bathroom. She also put one on the refrigerator, the microwave, and the toaster. No, he'd probably burn that one accidentally. She put it inside the fridge, on the empty shelf.

In the living room, she put three post-its on the TV and six on the front door as she left.

If she was lucky…

But then if she was lucky, Trout would have been sent to Detroit overnight.

Instead, when she got to the station—five minutes early, because she'd decided getting coffee would take too long—Trout was pacing in front of her desk, checking his watch.

This was getting old. She didn't bother saying 'good morning.'

"Sorry, was there a memo or email about a change to my schedule?"

He gave her an insincere smile. "A good head detective should always be early."

"Fortunately I am," she said coolly. "What can I help you with?"

"Got a crime scene for ya. Greenwood Park. Get on it." He handed her a slip of paper with the address. "And yeah, in case you wondered? I want you to call the psycho dweebs in."

"_Already_?"

He was much too amused. "Already."

"Interim Chief Trout," she began, but he cut her off.

"I really don't like that, O'Hara. At all. Call me Chief, or call me Sir."

_Never, and ick_.

Juliet stepped around her desk so he could hear her clearly. "I understand the game, you know. I know you expect me to be unable to control Shawn, and that'll be your way to kick me out."

Trout bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, reminding her briefly of Shawn at his ADD best. "And?"

At least he didn't bother denying it. The bastard _was_ honest, in his own slimy way.

"But you have a broader responsibility to the city, to the mayor, and to the public."

His pale eyes narrowed. "And that would be?"

"If you hire consultants before we've even been to the scene, you're saying the police department isn't competent to solve crime."

He chuckled, as if he knew everything. "But what if I _am_ trying to say that? Head Detective?"

Juliet pushed on. "After two very long months in charge, you'd also be saying your efforts to improve the situation have failed. In fact," and she bit back the bitter taste, "_sir_, you'd be saying _you've_ failed."

Drawing back slightly, he eyed her as if maybe, just maybe, she wasn't quite the idiot he'd taken her for.

Then he laughed, expansively, as if he were—as always—one step ahead. "All right, O'Hara. All right. Go to it. But I'll be watching. You knew that, right?"

She folded the paper and turned away without a word. "Dobson! You're with me."

Behind her, she heard Trout chuckling again—but she knew she'd scored that round. She knew he'd been so intent on starting his scheme he'd forgotten what it might cost _him_.

Dobson settled in beside her in the Crown Vic; he had obviously been unable to get his morning coffee too, so they made a fine half-grumpy pair.

"Listen," she said to the tired-eyed veteran. "We have to either solve this case or make substantial progress in like the first twenty minutes."

"We don't even know what the case is yet," he protested. "I'm good, but I'm not _that_ good."

"Yeah you are. And so am I. And we're going to show Trout." Her hands clenched the steering wheel.

_And Carlton. Damn him._

"I'm up for that. But why twenty minutes?"

"Because I think that's about as long as Trout will give us before he calls Psych in specifically to make us look bad."

"Uh… you think Spencer would do that to _you_?"

Juliet gave him a look. "Shawn's really not a take-one-for-the-team kind of guy. Besides, if we're going down—sorry, if _I'm_ going down—I want it to be because I actually failed. Not because Trout set unreasonable goals in a game only he knows all the rules to."

He nodded; he'd been on the force long enough to know any game around there was complicated. "Just in case, though… can you pull in to that Starbucks up ahead?"

She glanced at her watch. There was time. And caffeine _was_ the most important meal of the day.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

They'd rented a boat and were somewhere near the eastern end of the lake; sunlight reflected off the metal of cars passing on Chumash highway as it hugged the shoreline to the south.

It was a glorious morning: sun bright, air cool, fish biting, no one around and Henry temporarily quiet.

The coffee—the most important meal of the day, he and Juliet always agreed—was hot in its silver thermos, and he felt free of a lot of the reality he knew he couldn't ever _really_ get away from.

_What the hell are you going to do now?_

The question was sharp and sudden, and he had no answer.

_When are you going to talk to Juliet?_

_What the hell would I say that she'd want to hear?_

_How about you're sorry, dumbass?_

Was he sorry?

He didn't have to answer himself immediately, because Henry was slinging another fish into the boat, and damn if he wasn't cackling about it.

But soon the question returned. Was he sorry?

_Yes. No. Both. _

He was sorry to have hurt her but not about what he said. Someone had to say it to her. Someone with nothing left to lose. At the moment he began speaking he didn't _know_ he had nothing left to lose, but since he'd shortly thereafter gone out in a blaze of timer-stomping glory, he think he fit the description pretty well now.

Truth was, the fact they'd lasted eight years was fantastical. Sunny Juliet against his Death Star ways?

Or maybe he was more like the little black raincloud following Winnie The Pooh around.

Screw that. He was a full-out brooding thunderstorm. Full of sharks.

Henry took a break, sipping coffee and surveying the treeline. "I love this place best when there's not another soul around."

"Is that your way of saying you plan to dump me out?"

"Not just yet." He nudged the loose lid on the cooler where his catch flopped restlessly. "So. You ready to dish about Juliet?"

Carlton pulled his line in to rebait the hook. "What's to dish?"

"Come on, Lassiter. How about dishing why you haven't talked to her in a few days?"

His senses prickled. "What makes you think that?"

"Well, for one thing," he drawled, "she pretty much said so on camera."

_Dammit_. He kept his gaze on the bait. "It all happened pretty fast. You think I haven't talked to her since then?"

"Yup."

Carlton looked over at him; Henry was much too smug. "Because?"

"Because I might have looked at your phone this morning before you woke up."

"Might have," he growled. "Dammit, Spencer. Neither you nor your asshat son knows a damned thing about boundaries."

"Whoa now, that is _not_ true. Shawn would have flat-out cloned your phone. All I did was turn it on and look through the texts and voicemails to see if there'd been any communication between you and your partner."

"Ex-partner." He said it under his breath, but Henry had excellent hearing.

"Does that mean ex-friend as well?" His tone changed now, something speculative and yet gentle.

He cast out as far as he could, trying to disperse some of his sudden tension. "I don't know what it means."

"Don't be an idiot, man. If you did or said something, you gotta make it right."

Carlton turned slowly to study him. "You assume I'm at fault."

Henry laughed so long that Carlton contemplated throwing _him_ overboard. He settled for shoving Henry's cooler onto its side so the man had to scramble to retrieve the fish which grasped and flopped and made considerable show of their momentary hope of freedom.

"You know a lot of swear words," Carlton commented.

"And you don't, you son of a bitch?"

He grinned. "Just sayin'."

"Glad you're enjoying yourself, but it won't stop me asking questions." Henry wiped off his hands and picked up his coffee. "It'll just make me more determined to get an answer."

"I still don't know why you think there's an answer to get." He jiggled his line, mindful that Henry was likely to think _now_ was a good time to push him overboard.

"Okay, okay. I _might_ have run into Miller yesterday morning. He _might_ have told me that right before you quit your job, you _might_ have had some sort of private altercation with Juliet."

_Crappiest crap on a cracker._

"More might-haves," he repeated.

"Yup."

He glanced at Henry again, and the smug expression he'd expected wasn't there.

"You know she's a keeper, Lassiter."

"She can't be 'kept,'" he said shortly.

"Well, she's sure worth fighting for."

"Yeah, but sometimes you gotta know when the fight's over."

Henry shrugged. "Maybe. But don't be too sure about this one. Miller said when she came back from lunch and he told her you were gone, she said something along the lines of 'good riddance.'"

His heart sank. "That's supposed to encourage me?"

The grin was back. "Hell yeah, from Juliet. If she was really done with you, she wouldn't have said anything at all. You got her _mad_, which means you could actually be right about something where a woman's concerned, which means she's off thinking about it, and that's good."

"Glad _you_ think so."

"So what'd you say?"

"Ask _her_, mister investigator. Or better yet, ask your nosy-ass son."

Henry scoffed. "Shawn's even more clueless about women than you are."

"Again, that's supposed to encourage me?"

"Eh."

But Carlton was irritated. "What are we even talking about? My partnership with Juliet ended two months ago when Trout busted us up. I've been on patrol ever since."

"Your friendship—"

"Our friendship is our business. If it's over, it's over."

Henry sighed. "Lassiter. Whatever you said, take it back."

He felt cold, and wished he felt like swimming to shore to get away from this conversation. "I can't."

"Yeah you can. Men have been taking stuff back for eons. Take it back. Call her up, say you're sorry, take it _back_."

"I can't."

"Why not?" he asked impatiently.

He snapped, "Because _that_ would be the lie, Henry. And I'd rather go out with good memories and the truth than make up some sorry-ass crap to get back a friend I know damned well is done with me."

Henry sat back with a low whistle, and didn't say anything—thank God—for a few minutes. After a bit, he began to re-bait his hook.

After a bit more, he spoke without any particular emphasis. "The day you and Juliet are done with each other? Is the day Harris Trout is voted Miss Santa Barbara."

Chills. _Damn_ the man, chills. "You know she's got a boyfriend, right? She's the new head detective? She's got stuff going on? And she's—not sure if I mentioned this—got a boyfriend who takes up more time and energy than ten normal guys combined?"

"Shawn," Henry said with a laugh, "is just a placeholder."

More chills. "What the hell are you saying, Henry?"

Henry cast his line out, seeming nonchalant in a way which made Carlton want to boot him right out of the damned boat.

"I think I've said enough, don't you?"

"I thought that half an hour ago."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Ready for battle, newly caffeinated Juliet and Dobson arrived at the crime scene, which was at the edge of the park under the trees near a jogging path.

The body, a white male in his forties, was sitting up against a tree trunk, eyes closed, paisley tee shirt soaked in blood. No ID. The jogger who'd found him was nearby, but so far no one the patrol units had talked to was admitting to recognizing the dead man.

Woody Strode was just arriving himself, and after a suitable number of photos were taken, he lifted the deceased's t-shirt to see exactly where the injury was.

"Huh," he said.

_Great. One of _those_ cases._

Juliet inquired as to what exactly 'huh' meant.

Woody seemed pleased. "There's no visible source for all this blood. Could it be spaghetti sauce?"

Dobson, before Juliet could dump the rest of her coffee on Woody, said, "No. Check again."

"I am, but seriously, guys, there's no—oh. Hang on." He lifted the shirt the rest of the way up, and now he looked stricken. "I may have spoken too soon."

The photographer snapped more photos, these of the three bullet holes in the man's chest.

Uniforms were already searching the area, and Silvers called out to Juliet about a woman who'd approached him.

When Juliet got nearer, the woman beckoned her closer to the bushes she'd apparently come from. "Hey," she said. "Where's the mean guy?"

She looked about fifty. Maybe sixty. Almost uniformly gray: from hair to skin, with blotches of red in her cheeks. Definitely in the 'rode hard and put up wet' category but she didn't look crazy, just tired.

"The mean guy?"

"I've seen you with him before. He's got black hair and some kinda damn blue eyes."

_Some kinda damn blue eyes_. Yeah, that was Carlton.

"He's not mean," she said, and why had she said that? He _could_ be mean. Okay, usually it was when he was under attack and often it related to Shawn, and in every case Shawn was mean first, but still—

"Hey," the woman said. "You listening?"

"Sorry. What can I help you with?"

The woman drew back closer to the bushes. "More like the other way around. I know who the dead guy is."

Juliet focused on doing her job. "What's his name?"

"Jeff Hamilton. Been around awhile."

She glanced back at the tree where Woody was still at work under the supervision of Dobson. "Thanks. You happen to know who killed him?"

"Not for a fact, but I know who had it in for him. You need to be lookin' for Will Sellers. He'd been sayin' Jeff owed him money and lately he's been hinting around that Jeff was moving in on his girl."

"Okay, thanks again. What's your name?"

"Nothin'. Tell the mean guy the park chick said hey. He'll know." She started to slip away behind the bushes.

"Wait," Juliet said carefully. "Was he… ever mean to _you_? The mean guy?"

"Me? Nah. First time I met him, he helped me get my dog to the vet." She crossed her arms tightly. "Dog didn't make it, but he got me there and paid the vet off too." Looking up at Juliet, her expression cleared and she added solemnly, "Can't hide your heart. Bad or good. I think he tries to hide the good but I spotted it, and he can't fool me now."

Juliet, inexplicably feeling a touch misty-eyed, could not say a word in response, and the woman made her escape during this silence.

She'd been aware Carlton had his own informants, maybe two or three. He was careful to maintain their anonymity, but she knew their first names at least, and figured this one must be Lil. She was observant, he'd once told her, and lived in some nothing place near the park collecting a disability check and sometimes working in the kitchen at diners in the area.

Carlton, she reflected as she headed back to the main action, could be highly critical of those he thought were going against his ideas of how people should behave or dress or live. She could remember sweeping statements of disapproval about everyone from hippies to country folk. But he was a lot more open to making exceptions than he let on, and once he decided someone was A Good Person, he was loyal to a fault.

However, remembering this also reminded her he'd essentially said _she_ was no longer a good person.

_He did _not_ say that. He said you'd let your standards slip as a cop because of Shawn._

Well. She drew herself up sharply. Shawn wasn't here, and neither was Mean Guy. What was here was Jeff Hamilton and the name of a potential suspect in his murder, and this was _her_ watch, and _her_ team, and _her_ case.

She tapped on Dobson's arm. Woody was finished and the body was being moved to a stretcher. "Got a name," she said. "Jeff Hamilton. You know a Will Sellers?"

He was surprised. "Yeah. Busted him for drugs a while back. In fact I saw him here a minute ago." He started to turn to look at the gathered gawkers, but Juliet tugged on his arm again.

"Just tell me what he looks like. Maybe we can encourage his cooperation by surrounding him quietly."

Dobson smiled. "I like the way you think."

The guys moving the body were told quietly to slow down. Dobson went the long way around the gawkers after surreptitiously pointing out the scrawny bearded guy he knew as Sellers. Silvers strolled in the other direction, and Juliet headed toward some people ten feet away from the target, her notebook open as if she were about to talk to all of them and not one particular possibly-gun-toting killer.

She knew his type: _I did this thing and I'm proud of it and I want to see what happens next and they'll never suspect me because why would I be here if I did it? I mean, duh?_

When Dobson came up from behind and firmly grasped his arm, he was genuinely surprised he was being detained—for about five seconds. Then he started to run, which is where ex-track-and-field star Silvers came in—for about five yards, after which Will Sellers went down in an ungainly heap and Silvers cuffed him.

They had him in a cell an hour later, waiting for his public defender, but he'd had the gun on him and Woody and Ballistics were already on the job of matching bullets to weapon.

Trout came to Juliet's desk. She refrained from looking smug because this had been pretty easy, and there was really nothing to be overly proud of other than that she foiled the damned bastard. Her only regret was that if he _had_ called Psych in when he wanted, he'd have looked more incompetent than anyone else and besides—she glanced at her watch—they'd still be waiting for Shawn to roll out of bed and Will Sellers might be long gone.

"Not bad, O'Hara. Not exactly the most challenging case, but not bad."

An insult and a half-compliment. Nice.

He toyed with the stapler on her desk; she wanted to grab it from him. "Makes me wonder why the psycho dweebs had to be utilized so often, since it seems you _are_ capable of basic police investigation."

Forget grabbing it: making him eat it would be better.

"You had a stack of casefiles on your desk yesterday," she said coolly. "If you look through all of them, you'll find that the number of times Psych was _called_ in is fairly small compared to the number of times they simply… invited themselves."

"Hmmm. Doesn't really make your point, does it? It's tantamount to saying no one—not even your much beloved Chief Vick—could control them, and make no mistake, O'Hara, they're just people. They're not even smart people. They're just idiot people, and the day any police officer can't control an idiot is the day he should step down. Or _she_ should," he finished with a sneer.

_Grab stapler. Make him eat it. Get another stapler and use it on his bland, smug, really-realy-really-needs-to-be-stapled face._

"Chief Vick often had no choice in the matter, depending on the case. Plus, sometimes Psych took private cases which became police matters." She added evenly, "And they're not idiots."

"Well, they _act_ like idiots. Same difference." He set the stapler down. "You had a good morning. But your test is coming up, sister. Count on it."

He strode off, and Juliet sank down into her chair, almost shaking with utter pissed-off-ness.

Miller walked by and commented, "You're starting to scowl like Lassiter. Must be that desk."

She picked up the stapler to throw it at his retreating form but thought better of it. Miller would probably have understood, but Trout would only gleefully suspend her for workplace violence.

**. . . .**

The rest of the day presented no Trout-challenges.

She had time to go through Carlton's files and notes, and review the department's work over the past few months. While she'd been over in Cold Cases, she hadn't tried to keep up with active cases, because it was best to stay out of Trout's way, and ignorance was bliss.

There were things only Carlton would be able to tell her—tips and tricks and secrets of the role of Head Detective which he'd never _kept_ from her, exactly, but which he'd never gotten around to sharing. Never enough time.

_So call him up._

_I don't want to._

_You don't have to make small talk. Just ask him what you need to know._

_I don't want to._

_Then email._

_I don't want to._

_O'Hara, to do your job right—and to keep it—there is nothing wrong with consulting the person who held it before you. The person who molded the department into an efficient machine which did quality work. Call him._

_I don't want to._

_He might apologize._

_I might turn into Lady GaGa and wear a meat dress with a side of fries to work tomorrow._

To stop the conversation, and since it was nearly time to stop the day's sufferings as well, she called Shawn instead.

"Hey, Shawn. You at home?"

"Yes I am, my sweet doodlebug."

_Hmmm_. "What'd you do today?"

"Great day. One of the best. Gus and I met some people at Galaxy Smoothies who can get us in to see the Whitesnake and Warrant tribute band when they play at Tubular's next month. And I gotta say, Jules, the new pineapple coconut mango tangerine faux rum smoothie is the best. _Ever_. Really. All it needs is a new name. My vote is Picomango Tantrum but Gus wants Cocorum Appletango, which is crazy, because there's no apple in it."

_Hmmm_. "That's true. So what's in the kitchen?"

"The kitchen?" He seemed puzzled. "Appliances, cleaning supplies, a nice window looking out into the side yard. One time there was an apparition of Big Bird in my oatmeal, but I couldn't find my phone to take a picture of it before I ate it, so sadly, I have no proof."

_Hmmm_. "Anything else?"

He paused. "Do I have to look under the fridge?"

"How about if you just look _in_ the fridge?"

"For what?"

_Oh, holy hand grenade._

"Shawn. Did you go to the store today like I asked you?"

He laughed. "Wow, you sure went to a lot of trouble to remind me."

"Yes, I did! Did it work?"

"Well…"

_Dammit._

"Shawn?"

"Honey, I swear I was all set to go but then I remembered I didn't want to be tied up with anything in case Trout called me in on a case. I mean, imagine if I were like third in line with a full cart and the phone goes off and it's Trout and I'm stuck there for another twenty minutes, and then I'd have to go home and put stuff away and then it'd be another half hour and by then he'd be really pissed off, and he might take it out on you, and no way could I stand for that, right?" He took a breath. "Because you're my baby."

She should have said—in his view—"oh, how sweet."

In _her_ view, it was another damned day without food in the house, and this—of all completely ridiculous things—was going to be where she drew the line. Taking a moment to clear her tone of all emphases nasty, she said, "Okay. I'll stop for something before I come home."

"Ooh! Great—I've been thinking Thai. Get me a massaman and some fried rice, and—"

"No, Shawn. I meant I'd go get something to eat for myself and _then_ I'd come home."

"Oh." He paused. "Well, I could meet you. Just let me finish this game and I'll go anywhere you want."

"No thanks. I'm sure you're still full from the smoothies, dogs, churros, pizza, popsicles, and quatro queso dos fritos you had earlier."

Shawn gasped. "How'd you know about the popsicles?"

"Bye Shawn."

"Wait! Jules, really—you're going to have dinner without me?"

"It's not personal," she lied. "But since there's no food in the house again, I've got to have something, right? See you later!"

Cutting him off mid-objection was the second most satisfying moment of her day.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	5. Chapter 5: Run-Ins

**Chapter Five: Run-Ins**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Henry only pestered him about Juliet once more before they headed home on Friday afternoon.

It was early morning, and they were standing about ten yards apart on the shoreline within sight of their yurt. The sky was a solid gray, but the fish were biting. Between the two of them, and Henry's offer to loan freezer space, he had more than enough fish dinners lined up for the foreseeable future.

It had been a good few days. For all that Henry could effortlessly bug the living crap out of Carlton, they were enough alike that they made good company. If only his son was even slightly like Henry (apart from also being able to effortlessly bug the living crap out of Carlton), he might be able to tolerate the gelhead better.

But probably not.

"So is your plan to just avoid her for the rest of your life?"

Hell. Was it worth it to pretend he didn't know who he meant?

"It's not _avoiding_ if you have no reason to be around each other."

Long pause. Maybe he'd won.

"You have reasons."

Henry wasn't looking at him, but Carlton had learned that was when he considered himself the most clever.

Bastard was usually right, too.

"Look, Spencer, either follow up on what you hinted at two days ago or shut up forever."

He'd been trying to figure out alternate meanings; the question blared in his head at night, usually after he woke from confusing dreams about Juliet. About being with her. About seeing her smiling face and her clear eyes and feeling her liking—her _caring_—and their bond. Dreams that then shifted to showing him the wounded, angry Juliet he'd last seen a few days ago, one who was finished with him because by God, she'd paid her dues over seven years and he could go to hell.

"Shawn's my boy," Henry said heavily, "and damn if I don't love the idiot. But the fact that he got this far with Juliet has a lot more to do with her good nature than his ability to hold on to her. He can't do it, Lassiter. It's just not in him to… share. Least of all responsibility, and a relationship can't survive without that."

Carlton waited a moment to see if Henry went on. Impatience won out. "What's it got to do with me?"

"What it's got to do with you is how you and Juliet are together. You're a _team_ like he's never been part of with anyone, even Gus. You're a partnership. Maybe it's not equal in every way. Hell, you're different as all get-out. But it's a partnership, solid and real and lasting. Shawn's gonna lose her. I can't say when, but it'll happen."

Carlton had let his line go slack, and when he felt a tug on it he didn't even care.

Henry turned to eye him, half-frowning. "I'm not saying you should be there to pick up the pieces."

Confusion made him more irritated. "Then what the hell _are_ you saying?"

"I'm saying you should get to her _before_ there's pieces to pick up."

He just about dropped the fishing pole.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet continued her campaign regarding the groceries. It wasn't exactly cheap, since she was having all her meals out, but it was a satisfying way to control at least one little tiny petty part of her life.

Shawn was miffed when she wouldn't tell him where she was having dinner, not to mention shocked that she wasn't bringing leftovers home for him.

But he still kept finding reasons not to buy the damn food—probably because he ate very well during the day on Gus' dime—so she went on standing her ground.

There was a bonus—and it made her a little sad—in that she was actually enjoying those dinners alone. They served as a bit of downtime, a buffer between WorkCrazy and HomeCrazy.

_Something's gotta give._

She wondered about friends she used to see fairly often before Shawn took over her life. Why had she let them slip away?

_You used to have meals with Carlton too. _

_Shut up_.

The weekend campaign would be complicated. If she went out at lunch and dinner he'd try to follow, because there was absolutely nothing left to eat in the house except one jar of pimientos with an expiration date from last year. Nothing else. Not even croutons. Scarily, she'd finished off the last of the coffee on Friday.

Late morning, he suggested they order lunch in. She said sure.

He wanted to use her credit card. She said nah.

He pouted. Let's call Gus, he said.

She said he could do that, and she'd go for a run.

His hazel eyes narrowed. He knew she hadn't had any breakfast—or coffee—and it was already eleven. (More importantly, she guessed _he_ was starving.)

"Tell you what," he said. "Let's go out. I get a deal from the chef at Sioux Sous because I found her cat once, so we can—"

"That's okay," she said quite cheerily. "You can hook up with Gus. I'll find you later."

She didn't know why he resisted: with her he'd have to pay with his own money (and if he'd even _offered_ that—really—she'd have given it a shot) but with Gus he'd eat his fill for free.

This was ridiculous. She was _supposed_ to be in love with the guy. She'd let him worm his way back into her life after finding out he'd deceived her and the Chief and Carlton and the entire city for seven years. They were 'together.' Cohabitating, even.

Yes. Well.

"_After a time, you may find that _having_ is not so pleasing a thing, after all, as _wanting_."_

Juliet never thought she'd hear _Spock's_ voice in her head, but the line had stuck with her since she first heard it, and lately… lately it was almost a refrain.

Interspersed with _when are you going to make up with Carlton_…

"I know!" Shawn broke into her mental wanderings. "Let's go to the store. The pantry's kind of bare. We could stock up. Maybe get some fixings for nachos?"

She was only surprised he hadn't suggested this days ago. By now he should have already worked out how to give her the slip at the register. _Oh sweetie I forgot my wallet… oh hey I'm going to run over here and talk to the lobster; I'll be back before you get to the car… look! A chicken!_

"Sounds good, Shawn. But you don't need me for that. I'll go for my run and I'll help you make the nachos when I get back."

He was trying to think up a riposte when she leaned in, kissed his cheek, and ran like hell out of the house.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton, who officially had to get used to the horrors of free time, cleaned his condo on Saturday morning and responded civilly to those who had contacted him while he was away to express their surprise/regrets/curiosity about his sudden retirement.

Then he was left in the clean condo, bored out of his mind.

Well, not bored exactly. Agitated. Restless. Not ready to seriously consider what he was going to do next. Marginally ready to consider the hopeless task of forging some sort of reconciliation with Juliet.

He and optimism weren't well-acquainted.

_You haven't gone running all week. Do that. Pound some sense into your brain by way of your feet_.

Off he went, soon straying from his usual path into neighborhoods he didn't normally cover, but once he'd started, and having no particular reason to stick to a schedule or pattern—free time was going to be a real bitch—he just kept on.

The day was clear, yesterday's gray having given way to cool, sunny calm, and he felt better and more focused. It was all an illusion, because _you can't run forever_, but he'd take the reprieve anyway.

Thinking about going home and figuring out new ways to cook fish, he rounded a corner of a road he knew to be exactly three blocks long with no cross streets, and coming toward him at the far end was the unmistakable slim and perpetually golden form of She Who Was Haunting Him.

Juliet.

His heart hitched in his chest and he faltered—thinking maybe she faltered too—and in the next few seconds he mentally reviewed numerous scenarios.

Then he stopped and sank down onto a bench in front of a duplex. _Just get this over with._

Juliet was getting closer. Maybe slowing down, thinking up her own scenarios.

_It's time to know._

Door closed, locked and deadbolted: she would keep running and pass without a look or word.

Door closed and locked: she would keep running but say hello neutrally or cheerfully—didn't matter which; the point was she'd keep running.

Door cracked open, very slightly: she'd stop, hands on her hips, and say something or wait for him to speak. Or to react to being walloped with one of her running shoes.

Door open about three inches: she'd stop and sit. Wallop him, maybe, but she'd sit.

_You know her._

He watched her close the distance… _almost there_…

He knew she would stop. Not sit. But at least stop.

Juliet slowed… and stopped.

She was beautiful, as always, even flushed with exertion. Hair wind-tossed, posture tense.

She was angry. And hurt. She looked at him, silent, and those dark blue eyes were huge and upset and uncertain and he would never _ever_ forget the look she was giving him.

_You hurt me_, she was saying. _You betrayed me_.

He wanted to say _I told the truth. The truth sucks ass_.

Instead he said, "I know it's probably not how you wanted it, but you're going to be a great Head Detective. Congratulations."

Her arms wound around her middle tightly, and her lower lip trembled.

"Sorry I didn't give you an opportunity sooner." He tried a partial smile. Probably looked like a grimace.

Juliet started to say something—he couldn't tell what it was. But she swallowed instead and her face grew more pink and she hugged herself tighter.

_This probably isn't good._

He sighed. "Thank you, Juliet. For everything. For every day of every year you were my partner and friend."

She took a sharp breath, and those lovely, lovely eyes filled with tears.

He hated himself. He hated who he was. Because he couldn't take back the truth of what he'd told her that day. He _couldn't_.

But more than that…

He stood up, and she took a step back, and that broke the rest of his heart. "I'm sorry I hurt you," he said quietly. "You'll never really understand how sorry I am."

Juliet put a shaking hand up to her cheek, and he didn't wait to see the rejection he knew was coming. He jogged away from her, and she didn't call him back.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_Dammit. _

_Dammit._

_Damn him._

Juliet brushed fresh tears away and squared her shoulders.

Okay, so he looked lost. So he looked lonely. So his eyes were the blue of the sky just before sunset, only haunted and mesmerizing and _searching_.

So she missed him like crazy and seeing him, his bastardly self, seeing him like this, like _that_, was a stab to the heart.

_So what?_

She could do this. She could get over—

No she couldn't.

"Dammit," she whispered.

The familiar voice beside her inquired with some amusement, "Any time a cupcake makes you curse, you should eat it fast to prove who's boss. Come on, I'll buy."

Startled, she looked up to find Karen Vick watching her curiously.

They were in the Heavenly Bakery, and Juliet had wound up in front of the cupcake case, but all she'd been able to see was Carlton during their two-minute encounter.

"Chief—you—"

"Karen," she interrupted. "As long as I'm on suspension, no need to use the title. What'll it be? Poppyseed, chocolate, coconut?"

She had intended to go get lunch, but the bakery was first on her path, and she really, really deserved dessert right now.

"Chocolate éclair."

Karen laughed. "Good choice. Coffee?"

"I'll buy that, thanks, and for you too."

"Sounds good."

They took their pastries and coffees to a wrought-iron table out on the sidewalk, and Karen sat back to survey her.

"Congratulations are in order, I hear. Although I can't imagine you much wanted to work for Harris Trout."

"I don't even want to work in the same _state_ as Harris Trout."

He'd left her alone the last couple of days, preoccupied by learning to work a new high-tech egg timer as well as various meetings with muckety-mucks at City Hall, but he always found time to half-sneer at her whenever he was sure she saw him.

"I hear that too."

"How's Iris? Glad to have you around?"

Karen smiled. "Over this summer, yes. That was one benefit of the timing of the suspension. My husband likes me being home too. But I am expecting to go back, you know. The Trouts of the world never last, and I have no reason to think Mayor Swagerty has a specific problem with me. We did good work, Juliet."

"I know."

"For years, we did good work." Her tone had an edge to it. "I admit I let Spencer call the shots about his involvement too often and for damn sure there was too much cleanup every time, but overall, I'm proud of the SBPD and my leadership there."

"You should be. I'm proud of our work too."

Composing herself with a faint smile, Karen took a chunk out of her Napoleon and sighed contentedly. "Be that as it all may, and putting aside my shock at Carlton's retirement, it's still very good for the department that you're the lead now."

Juliet rolled her eyes. "Thanks, but it's just a game for Trout. He wants me to crash and burn when he calls Psych in on a case."

"Come again? I thought he banned Psych." In a mutter, she added, "Which truthfully isn't such a bad idea."

Juliet took no offense; she thought so too these days. "His specific plan—and he admits this—is to get rid of me by proving I can't control Shawn."

Karen's frown was fierce. "That son of a bitch. Trout, not Shawn. I don't suppose you can convince Shawn to…"

"Hire someone mature to play his role?" Juliet laughed shortly. "My only hope is that Gus will be afraid enough of going to jail that he'll have some influence over him."

"Unprofessional jackass," Karen snapped with a scowl. "I cannot believe that forcing excellent cops out was what Swagerty had in mind when he brought Trout in. What does Carlton think about all this?"

_Carlton. What _did_ he think?_ She wished she could ask him.

When she didn't respond, in favor of devouring half her éclair, Karen cleared her throat. "In the TV bit, you said no when they asked if you'd talked to him. But that was days ago."

"Yup." Another bite of éclair. She needed it. Maybe one to go as well. (So long as she ate it before she got home, lest Shawn make it disappear with one lustful look.)

"Juliet." There was practically a _tsk_ in the tone. "What's this about? I assumed it was Trout you were damning when I saw you inside, but was it Carlton instead?"

"Pick a man, any man," she said flippantly. "Any one of them could be the target of my ire."

Karen pulled her chair up closer to the table. "Is Carlton giving you attitude about your promotion? Because I'll go to his condo and hoist him by his own petard if he—"

"We have spoken." Juliet met her gaze evenly. "A little while ago, in fact. He's supportive."

_Very much so. Very much heart-dentingly so_.

"Hmmm." Karen sipped her coffee. "What were the circumstances of his resignation?"

She shrugged. "Miller said he stomped on Trout's egg-timer and then quit."

"I like it. But Carlton didn't tell you himself?"

"Haven't asked."

Karen was quiet, working on her Napoleon. "So he finally stomped on _your_ egg timer too, huh."

Juliet stared at her, surprised. "What?"

This time it was Karen who shrugged. "It was bound to happen."

"_What_?"

"Well, you were kind of giving him short shrift there for a while."

Juliet's hands were shaking—again—and she set her coffee down carefully. "Karen, I don't—"

Her warm brown gaze was kind. "You took his loyalty for granted. You thought Carlton would never do more than bluster about Shawn and would never notice flaws in your own relationship."

_This wasn't happening._

"But unlike you, he _did_ notice those flaws."

Her mouth may have been hanging open.

"Probably most clearly when we watched that movie about Kate Favor and the Serbs in the woods."

"I was the only one trying to _find_ him!" Juliet protested.

"Exactly. Your concern was evident and true." Karen put her fork on the empty plate and wiped her mouth. "But even I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen it."

That was it. Juliet stood up, restless and upset and unwilling to burst into tears in front of her boss, suspension be damned. "I have to go."

"Sit down, Juliet," Karen said gently, grasping her wrist. "I'm a friend right now. Not a boss."

She obeyed, and cried anyway, just a little, using the last of the napkins to dry her hot face while Karen went inside briefly for a few more.

Seated again, this time sipping ice water which Karen had also brought out, she pulled herself together.

"Carlton," she began unsteadily, "said I cut too many corners on the job when Shawn was involved. He said I let Shawn treat me like… like some kind of toy in public. And he said he didn't want to come back as my partner because…" She swallowed. "Because he doesn't like me anymore. Who I become when Shawn's around."

Karen let out a low whistle. "He said plenty."

Passing traffic and the sound of a lone bird in a tree down the block were the only other sounds for a moment, while Juliet fanned herself lightly and drank more ice water.

"I can't speak to the corner-cutting," Karen said carefully, "because if you did that, you concealed it admirably, and please do not elucidate at this point."

She hadn't planned to. Just like she hadn't planned to keep _seeing_, these past few days, all the times Carlton was right. All the times she'd looked the other way. All the times she'd let Shawn get away with pulling some crap which he insisted was absolutely necessary to solve the case even though she knew there had to be better, legal ways which would merely take a little longer.

The debacle of the case involving Gus' boss jabbed at her: her role in cleaning up—no, _covering_ up—Shawn's chaos. Making it worse. Making herself worse.

Because it was easier to give in. Because she and Carlton would fix it up for the D.A. like they always did.

Because she was exactly the patsy he'd said she was.

Karen continued slowly, "I do feel confident that Carlton likes you as much as he ever did, which is undeniably more than he's ever liked anyone else, _ever_, including his friend Hank."

It should have been a comfort. After all, she'd seen in his eyes not an hour ago that he cared about her; she could almost feel it emanating off of him. But could he respect her again as a cop?

For that matter, could she? If she survived Trout's tests, if somehow she could get Shawn to cooperate and help her keep her job, if Karen came back and Psych was re-hired regularly: how long before Shawn would wear her down again, get her to go back to letting things slide?

This stupid War Of The Groceries was probably the toughest stand she'd ever taken short of breaking up with him months ago, but even then she had taken him back… _and nothing changed. _

_Nothing_.

Maybe she shouldn't be worried about _Carlton's_ liking and respect. Maybe she should be worried about whether _she_ could like herself again.

"However, he's dead on regarding Shawn being too open about your personal relationship in the workplace. Honestly, _I_ was appalled that you never smacked him down for it, if only to remind him of your authority on the job. Before Trout suspended me, talking to you about it was pretty high on my 'to-do' list."

Juliet felt sick. That was Chief Vick talking. She was disguised as Karen, and Juliet had no doubt she was actually speaking as a friend, but it was nonetheless the Chief, confirming what Carlton had said: Juliet was an idiot.

_He didn't say that._

_He might as well have._

She blew her nose again, nodding miserably.

"I'm sorry," Karen said kindly.

"So am I."

"But don't write Carlton off just yet."

She started to shake her head.

Karen cut her off. "No, I mean it. He's been at your side for what, going on eight years now? You've both been under a huge amount of stress this summer and all relationships take a little beating now and again. But you two—you're more than capable of fixing this, and you really should. You sort of…" She hesitated.

"We sort of what?"

She looked wry. "You complete each other. Unlikely as it seems, you two are a team built to last. I never would have said it when you first started. I figured he'd either break you fast or you'd request a kinder, gentler partner—or," she said with a laugh, "you'd break _him_. But you outlasted all the reasons you were outwardly a terrible fit. Don't let that go, Juliet."

Breathing deeply, Juliet pressed the cold glass to her forehead.

"I don't want to let it go," she admitted. "But I don't know how… I can't… I need time."

"Then take time. Sounds simple, I know. But time might give you some ideas, and maybe he'll come up with a few himself."

_I should have just thrown my arms around him today._

She took another deep, hiccupping breath.

"Okay."

Karen smiled. "Okay?"

"Okay."

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	6. Chapter 6: The Tests Resume

**CHAPTER SIX: ****The Tests Resume**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

On Sunday morning, Shawn made an effort to play nice. He brought her the paper and coffee in bed. He even plucked a flower out of the garden to hold between his teeth as he brought in these treasures.

He made her laugh—he generally could—but she was not going to budge on the grocery issue.

Especially since when she got home the day before (after a preemptive lunch at her favorite Mexican place) and sweetly asked if he was ready to "nacho up," he said without shame that he didn't go shopping because Gus had promised to bring some food over.

Which he had, apparently, and they'd already devoured for themselves, judging by the bits of powdered sugar on Gus' guilty face.

She said it was a good thing she'd taken the precaution of lunching before she came home—earning a _tsk_—and when she got called out later on a case, she had a quick dinner with a few of the other detectives (…_missing Carlton in the mix..._) and stopped off to buy coffee for the morning. Shawn didn't drink as much of it as she did, and she really did need it to achieve full consciousness on workdays.

After his long-overdue show of sweetness, Juliet got up to shower and dress, telling him she was going out for brunch, and didn't even hint that she wanted company.

As she stood by the kitchen counter checking her wallet, he pleaded, "Let me come with you."

_Give him one chance_.

"You have to pay your own way."

"I didn't say I couldn't. Look, I have money." He opened his own wallet and showed her what appeared to be seven or eight dollars.

She couldn't resist: "Why don't you get some groceries with it?"

He rolled his eyes. "Because, sweetie, unless I buy out the Ramen noodle supply, I don't think it'll get us very far."

_As if I'm an idiot._

"Eight dollars today," Juliet observed coolly, "would be more than you've spent in a long time on what we need for the house."

"Jules, come on. You know I'm broke."

"Do I?" She leaned against the counter, looking him over speculatively. "Seems like you always have money for what _you_ want, and just a couple of days ago you insisted you had a full-time job, not that I ever see you working."

"It's been slow," he tried.

"You don't even go to the office, Shawn. You might have phone messages right now about cases waiting to be solved for actual money."

He huffed. "I'm sick of spying on cheating husbands and tracking down missing cats. I need a real case. I need an SBPD case. When's Trout going to call me?"

"In the first place, any case that pays is a real case. In the second place, Trout will call you when he's ready to fire _me_, so if I were you, I wouldn't be in such a hurry to get that phone call."

"Sweetie, he is not going to fire you. You're the best detective on the squad."

Juliet straightened up, tucking her wallet in her pocket. "Yeah? Well, Carlton was the best too, and Trout managed to drive him away. He's not going to wait another two months to wear _me_ down."

"That's ridiculous," he protested. "I can see him wanting to get rid of Lassie. Lassie's a no-fun tightass. But you get results, and Trout isn't—"

She cut him off, feeling hot all over as anger washed over her rapidly. "I get results because I learned my job _from _Carlton, and I know this is a hard concept for you, but real life with adults isn't always fun. And let's not stray from the actual argument, which is that for well over two months, I've paid all the bills. Did you catch that distinction? Well _over_ two months. More like four, in fact. All the rent, all the food, all the everything, Shawn. All me. I even paid your motorcycle insurance."

"Are you trying to say I don't contribute anything? Who mowed the lawn last week?" He seemed genuinely stunned.

"Oh, my God. Is that how you're going to play it? Two hours in the yard running a mower with gas_ I_ paid for makes up for four months of living here with zero expenses? You're right! I'm totally unreasonable!"

He threw his hands in the air. "Well what do you want me to do about it? I'm broke! There! I said it again!"

"Get a job. Go to your office. Hang out the 'open' sign. Drum up business. Try. Just like the rest of us, Shawn: _try_. Gus might let you run a tab, but I can't, because _we_ are supposed to be committed to living together sharing a _life_, and that means sharing expenses too. Get. A. Job."

His face was a mask and his eyes were carefully blank: she knew that look. It was a look of _assessment_ while he tried to figure out all the angles.

Juliet sighed. "I'm going to have brunch at Sammy's. If you want to join me on your own dime, let's go."

After a pause, during which his stomach growled, he went for it.

It wasn't entirely painless. His eight dollars was four bucks short of the brunch price, so he had to choose carefully off the menu and forgo a beverage. He kept looking longingly at her generous buffet plate, and she did make one concession: she gave him half of a blueberry muffin.

There were more moments when he was the Shawn she'd originally fallen for… rather, there were moments when she found him amusing again, even charming.

She thought back to when she'd first met him, and understood now that when she was twenty-four and new to the SBPD, Shawn had been the bright, quirky, fun spot in some fairly dark days. Young at heart, or so he seemed, he was an antidote to the very adult world of police work.

But over the years, while she grew up, Shawn… didn't.

Other than gaining a little weight, she really couldn't think of any way _he'd_ changed at all.

Maybe he was a bit like Peter Pan… but Peter's refusal to grow up cost him Wendy.

Wendy had to move on, just like time itself… and watching Shawn devour the half-muffin as if he hadn't eaten in weeks, Juliet realized she would eventually have to move on too.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet passed Trout's office on her way in Monday morning and he barked at her; veering, she entered his lair.

Front and center, almost more prominent than his smuggity-smug face, was a black metallic kitchen timer sitting in the middle of his blotter.

He patted it. "My new baby."

"Stomp-proof?"

_Crap. Probably not a good idea._

"It releases robot roaches when attacked," he assured her authoritatively enough to be half-way believable.

"Good to know. What do you need?"

"I need results, O'Hara. And I have a case for you." He handed her a folder. "Guns and roses. Specifically, suspicious and potentially gun-selling activity out of Willow Floral. Body found Sunday afternoon a block away, single gunshot to the temple, Willow receipt in his pocket."

She flipped through the file, puzzling over what he said rather than what she was reading. "What was the receipt for?"

"Daisies."

Juliet looked up, eyebrow arched. "I see. Very dangerous."

"Just get on it, O'Hara. The dead man has connections to a known gunrunner and Willow's been near ground zero for a few other shootings in the recent past. It's all in the file."

His smile was much too—her mind searched for a better word than "smug," but no, "smug" was really _precise_—smug for her to feel at all comfortable.

She said nothing, and took the file to her desk to study it, calling up other files via computer to see the full extent of the situation.

Officer Silvers had been first on the scene, so she called him to ask for more detail.

But his incident report matched what he told her on the phone: a janitor taking trash out spotted the body just inside the mouth of an alley a block from Willow Floral. Silvers said there were no other signs of trauma to the deceased, Paco Garcia. His ID and credit cards were intact—no cash—and the Willow Floral receipt, from the night before, did in fact list daisies, two dozen in number, and none of them in sight. She made a note to check with Willow to see if they were ordered for delivery.

Prelim information on the deceased: 43, single. She dug deeper and learned he was a bricklayer, divorced, the father of two children and current on his child support. No police record. Not a 'person of interest' in any of the databases. His fingerprints were in no database. He didn't seem to be even remotely connected to any criminal activity.

Trout said, "Progress?" over her shoulder, startling her.

_Where the hell had he come from?_

"It's only been forty-five minutes. So far all I can tell you is he's clean."

He gave her a _tsk_ much too similar to Shawn's and she considered rolling her chair back suddenly and claiming it was accident. _Oh sorry, did I sever your smug foot?_

"Do better, O'Hara." He strode off, and Juliet despised him.

Calling on Dobson to work with her, she directed his efforts to combing deeper through Garcia's history while she went to work on looking at the other shootings near Willow Floral in the past few years. There were three: one was a mugging gone wrong and one was a lover's spat in front of Ringo's bar four doors down.

The third was three months ago. Similar to Garcia, the victim was a blue-collar worker with no criminal history other than a bar dust-up ten years earlier. The bullet passed through his body and was not recovered, but based on the wound, the coroner estimated it to have been small caliber.

So far she wasn't seeing anything to link these deaths, which meant taking a closer look at Willow Floral. Owned and operated by the Rafferty family for thirty years, it had held on despite a decline in the neighborhood.

Something popped into her head: Trout's statement that the victim Garcia had connections to a known gun-runner. She called over to Dobson's desk and told him to look closely at more of the man's family and friends, and then as soon as he said 'okay,' she said, "You know what, let's just go over to Willow Floral and ask some questions. See what we scare up."

While he was putting on his jacket, she went to Trout's office and tapped on the door of the room she'd come to hate. Under Chief Vick's occupancy, it was just the Chief's office. Now it was a den of depression. A cave of carnage. An island of irritation.

"What?"

"You said Garcia was connected to a gun-runner but I'm not finding that in his file. Where'd you come by the information?"

Trout blinked. "Everyone who dies of a gunshot wound in the street is connected to a gun-runner, O'Hara."

Juliet looked at him, processing this ridiculous statement. "So you were… speculating?"

"I have sources," he said testily. "My sources advise me Garcia has connections. Your job is to dig them out. Why are you still standing here?"

_I'm lost in admiration_, she wanted to say sarcastically.

She and Dobson drove over to Willow Floral. It was on the edge of an older neighborhood, but was brightly painted and well-maintained, probably one reason it still at least half-thrived: it put on a brave face.

Dobson updated her on his efforts, which had yielded little. Garcia did have a cousin who got popped for meth the year before, and his uncle Mano engaged in a little vandalism during a drunken binge after he lost his job in '08, but otherwise Paco Garcia seemed to be a pretty stand-up guy. Paid his bills, lived within his means, no red flags. No weapons registered in his name. Not even a fishing license.

Maeve Rafferty was working the front counter when they walked in, greeting them with a smile which neither faded nor seemed forced even after they identified themselves as police officers.

Her husband Callum was in the back unpacking supplies, and an assistant she identified as their nephew Regan was sprucing up the window displays. There was pleasant music in the background, the place was well-lit and fragrant, and Juliet knew all too well appearances could be deceiving, but the whole place smacked of… crimelessness.

Callum was slight, red hair having faded almost to gray, but he shook their hands firmly as the three Raffertys confirmed they'd heard about the shooting.

Although none of them knew Paco Garcia, Regan identified him as the subject of the photo Dobson showed him, and said he'd come in just before close on Saturday evening to order two dozen daisies.

The delivery address was for a Mia Montoya, and the delivery was completed Sunday afternoon. Maeve explained that while the shop was closed to the public on Sundays, they delivered every order placed after four p.m. on Saturday.

"Who made the delivery?"

"My brother Brian," said Regan. "Do you need to talk to him?"

"Yes, and we'd like Mia's address as well."

Juliet and Dobson got permission to look around the store and workroom, including the shop's access to the alley which ran perpendicular to the one Garcia was found in.

Shortly thereafter, they sat in the Crown Vic and frowned at each other.

"Where's the gun-running?" Dobson asked. "I don't get any vibe off those people."

"Me either. But Trout clearly thinks there's something to find."

"Ass," he muttered. "I would take Vick and Lassiter back in a heartbeat, on their worst days, fighting over the last cup of coffee and last half of a cruller after a four-day meeting with City Hall."

Juliet burst into laughter and had to agree.

Dobson gave her a look. "_You've_ gotten a lot more cranky lately. Miller says it's having to work at Lassiter's desk."

"Yeah, well, I have some pretty good reasons to be cranky."

"Yeah, you do." He fastened his seatbelt. "Brian or Mia?"

Neither, as it happened. Mia Montoya, a stockbroker who was shocked to hear about Paco, was about to go into a lunch meeting; she was going to come in at 1:00, and Brian Rafferty was out making more deliveries but would stop by the station at 2:30.

Dobson had a doctor's appointment during his lunch hour, so Juliet went into the station alone, and once again as she passed Trout's office, he barked her name.

_You need to start using the other entrance._

He stood in front of his desk, his expression both smug and expectant. Smugextant. Exsmugtant.

She was losing it.

"O'Hara. Solve the case yet?"

"We've talked to the Willow Floral owners, checked out the area, and have meets set up with two other players. So far, there's no sign Garcia's murder had anything to do with guns. Has Woody's preliminary report come in yet?"

"Call down there and ask. I just wanted you to bring the _consultants_ up to speed." Turning slowly, he gestured to the men standing in the corner by the table.

One very nervous Burton Guster.

And one damned-close-to-Trout-quality-smug Shawn Spencer.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton took the laptop out on the patio and sat in the shade by the wall, looking up law enforcement job ads. It was inconceivable that he not work, and having been off for a full week with no clear plans for the future—and not even recovering from an injury—was making him more restless than usual.

Plus he was still unsettled by his run-in with Juliet on Saturday… how it had felt to see her pain, and to sense from her bearing that she really was done with him.

_Shake it off_, he advised himself. _You never had a chance with her anyway and your friendship was on the decline because of Spencer. Isn't it better to have shot it between the eyes than watch it die slowly?_

Yeah… no. Maybe. Crap.

He drank his coffee and perused the listings. If he went outside Santa Barbara County he had more options, but almost all of them would require a move unless he wanted a hellacious commute.

He was looking for a midsize department. Not too big, not too small. He doubted he'd ever make Chief anywhere now as long as Trout had friends at SB City Hall, but surely his record would get him at least an interview at places like Ventura or Santa Paula, both of which had positions posted. He definitely didn't want to go as far down the coast as Los Angeles, God no.

Not that he wouldn't be kickass as it, he reminded himself, for he'd never lacked confidence in his abilities. But he wasn't ready to be immersed in the grit and smog of LA.

_Never say never, unemployed cop._

When his retirement paperwork was approved he'd know better what his real choices were. In the meantime, he needed to start the groundwork to sell the condo.

And that sucked.

He went back inside for a refill on his coffee, and stood in the living room regarding the place. He'd bought it for Marlowe, who'd decided two months before her release from prison that she also wanted to be released from her promises to him.

Marlowe. Seemed like the distant past. Born out of a few moments' madness when he believed that one aborted date followed by weekly hour-long prison visits would be enough to forge a lasting relationship—one he foolishly assumed would also surpass his feelings for Juliet.

When she broke it off, he initially assumed it was all him: she'd realized he was a bastard and wanted out. Or worse, she'd somehow sensed where his heart really lay.

But as the months drifted by, he accepted what Marlowe had begged him to understand: it was simply too much too fast and she needed to put her life back together independently—to learn to stand alone.

Carlton already knew about standing alone.

And at the time, he at least had Juliet's friendship and partnership to take comfort from.

Juliet painted most of his bedroom herself before he moved in. He thought of that now and again—of her standing on a ladder, laughing when she couldn't quite reach the far corner, nearly toppling over. Some nights when he lay in bed trying to sleep, he summoned the memory of that happy laughter to soothe himself.

_Yeah._

_Sell this place and move the _hell_ out of Santa Barbara County as fast as your Irish ass can carry you. _

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet later acknowledged privately that she specifically called on Carlton's expertise in her effort to maintain a poker face during the moments which stretched out after Trout so very casually gestured to Shawn and Gus.

As well as the subsequent moments where Gus continued to look terrified and Shawn continued to look proud.

_Damn you, Shawn._

Turning back to Trout, she said very politely, "I'm not sure what they can bring to the case at this point. We're still doing a lot of background work and unless you're facing unexpected pressure from the public, I don't see how Psych is a justifiable expense."

Trout's eyebrows went up. "It's not your job to see that, Detective. Your job is to utilize all the tools at your disposal, and these… tools," he added with deliberate emphasis (which Gus caught but Shawn missed because he was too busy feeling the love he had for himself, and that, Juliet told herself, was an extremely unpleasant thought about the man she was involved with), "are available."

She was at a loss. "Where do you want them to start? The Rafferty family looks clean, Garcia looks clean, and we haven't yet talked to the recipient of the daisies or the boy who delivered them."

"Who the hell is the Rafferty family?"

"If I may, Interim Chief," Shawn said smoothly, "I believe a quick check will verify that the Gerry Rafferty, most likely the patriarch, is best known for the songs _Stuck In The Middle With You_ and _Baker Street_, of which the Foo Fighters did a rockin' cover version, by the way, although I thought Gerry was already dead, so I doubt Juliet was able to speak with him in person."

Gus covered his eyes. Juliet felt sick to her stomach.

Trout grinned. "God love an idiot. Just get to work."

"On what?" she persisted. "We have no suspects yet. You only gave me the case three hours ago."

"Vick called these guys in within minutes sometimes," he retorted. "You're lucky I gave you three hours."

"Some of those were extremely high profile cases which put immediate pressure on the department, and the rest of them were when Shawn just shoved his way into an investigation!"

Shawn said sotto voce to Gus, "Gus. I don't… _shove_, do I?"

"Yes, Shawn, you do."

"Yes, you do," Juliet echoed, feeling free to glare at them both.

Trout interrupted, "We've now entered the part of the conversation where I don't give a damn. O'Hara, show the twins the casefile so far, go talk to Strode, have them with you when you meet the other people I don't give a damn about, and get this gun-runner's murder solved."

Juliet bit back every curse word her brothers (and multiple cops) had taught her, and stalked out of the office.

Shawn and Gus headed toward her old desk, and wandered confusedly to where she was now fuming.

"Juliet," Gus whispered, "you can't sit at Lassiter's desk."

"A, it's not his desk, because B, he retired, and C, I'm the new damn Head Detective now so I can sit wherever the hell I want, and D, dammit Shawn!"

He was taken aback. "_What_?"

"Gerry Rafferty? _Really_?" It was Gus asking. "You want her fired?"

Shawn seemed genuinely puzzled. "My God, who doesn't like _Baker Street_? Or streets full of bakers, for that matter? Bakeries are awesome."

"Why did you come here without warning me?" She nearly hissed it.

Gus punched his arm. "You told me you called her!"

"You never needed to be warned before!" Shawn protested, rubbing his arm. "It's just a case, Jules! I can solve it in my sleep and besides, you _told_ me to get a job." That last came out in the challenging tone she'd grown to hate.

"A job that wasn't based on me losing mine." Her head was throbbing. "This is not a case for you. Ever hear of random shootings? Muggings gone wrong? That's what this one looks like. You don't need to be here."

"Every case deserves a full investigation," he chided. "You really shouldn't sell this dead guy short."

Juliet shot to her feet. "I have never sold any victim short!"

Gus pulled on Shawn's shoulder. "Um, stand back, buddy."

"Yes," she said icily. "Stand back. Maybe as far as Fresno. That'll work."

"Look, just settle down, okay? Let me take a look at the file. It's not like you have a choice, and if we do get it solved fast, it's no reflection on you."

_The. Sheer. Nerve._

But Gus backed him up. "Juliet. Just let him see the file. It's what Trout wants and you can't go against him. Let Shawn do his thing. I'll get some tape for his mouth."

She practically threw the folder at Shawn, hoping he'd at least get a paper cut, but he caught it easily while glaring at Gus.

Sitting down and rubbing her temples, she suddenly had a clear sense of what Carlton must have felt over the years: helpless rage as people he believed he didn't need were forced upon him to do a job he was perfectly capable of doing himself.

With her at his side, as his partner.

Only there _she'd_ been on the sidelines, practically cooing at Shawn instead.

No partner at all.

Not much of a friend.

No wonder he didn't like her anymore.

"I have to go throw up," she said abruptly, and left them at her desk while she went to do just that.

**. . . . . .**

**. . . . .**

**. . . .**

_[A/N: at the beginning of CH1, I said I was pretending Marlowe didn't exist. Well, as you can see, she talked me into letting her exist a little tiny bit in this chapter.]_

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	7. Chapter 7: Call For Help

**CHAPTER SEVEN: CALL FOR HELP**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet emerged from the ladies room reluctantly. Shawn, and somehow not surprisingly, was arm-wrestling Sergeant Allen at the Booking desk, but Gus was waiting for her with a bottle of juice from the vending machine, his large dark eyes showing sympathy and concern.

"What can I do?"

"What _can_ you do?" she asked bitterly. "What can anyone do?"

"I can slow him down. I have a few tricks of my own, you know."

"Pardon my skepticism."

He shrugged. "You'll see."

Shawn bounded up to them with a bright, "So. Lunch?"

_I just told you I was going to be sick, and you… want… lunch. _

Gus shook his head. "In a minute, Shawn. Let's go see Woody first."

"Dude. I'm _hungry_."

"_Dude_, if we see Woody and then go out to find a lead, we can eat on the way _and_ make Trout think we're on the case."

Shawn bought it. Juliet sipped juice and tried to keep herself calm.

Woody was perusing the contents of a folder when they entered, but what he pulled out to show them was a centerfold from some sort of hamster-oriented magazine. "I am _so_ getting this for my birthday," he crowed.

Juliet stepped in before the derailment was complete. "What do you have on the Paco Garcia case?"

"Who's that?"

_Great. _

"Paco Garcia? Shot to the head? Found in an alley yesterday?"

"Oh! Paco! See, _I _call him by his given name, Paolo Antonio Raul de la Maria Fernando Gonzales."

"That's a mouthful," Shawn commented. "More than a mouthful. Kind of an about-to-overflow and better-hope-no-one-squeezes-your-face mouthful."

Woody grinned. "My thoughts _exactly_. I've missed you guys. Where've you been?"

"Woody," Juliet said firmly. "I need your preliminary findings on Paco Garcia."

"Well, why didn't you say so?"

She glanced at Gus. Was he helping? No. But he looked guilty, so that was all right.

Woody consulted the folder. "Recovered the bullet, which was a .22. Gunshot residue to the temple indicates he was shot at close range. Probably had a couple of drinks in the hours before he died—which by the way was approximately one a.m.—but nothing significant. Otherwise in good health." He shook his head sadly. "Shame what one little bullet can do. Hey, guys, got time for that shuffleboard game you promised me?"

He pulled the sheet off the examination table to show off the diagram he'd painted long ago. Shawn's eyes lit up. Gus glanced at Juliet and nodded meaningfully before he too advanced on the table and exclaimed that he wanted to play.

She made her escape gratefully.

Dobson wasn't due back until one, which was when Mia Montoya was coming in, so she ducked out to get a bowl of chicken soup from the diner down the street. She was still feeling unsettled but she knew if she didn't eat a _little_ something, the rest of the day would be far worse, and if Trout objected to her taking her authorized lunch break, he could stuff that freaking timer right up his freaking butt.

She really, really wished she'd been there when Carlton stomped on the first timer.

"O'Hara," Dobson said, settling into the booth across from her. "My appointment got canceled. Thought I'd grab a bite."

_Thank God._ She told him Trout's evil plan, and he said they needed one of their own.

"Trout says he wants them in on our meetings with Mia and Brian, but _I_ want five minutes alone with them before Shawn goes in. Can you distract them for at least that long?"

Dobson grinned. "I'm a big guy. If nothing else, I can block the damn door."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Taking a last look down the hall, Juliet slipped into Observation and from there into the interrogation room where Mia Montoya waited.

Upstairs, Dobson was painstakingly reviewing for Shawn and Gus Every. Single. Detail. of their trip to Willow Floral as well as everything he'd learned from his investigation into Paco Garcia's past. Gus was asking a lot of questions. He was deeply fascinated by the good clean life of the deceased, and Shawn was no doubt getting antsier by the second.

Juliet figured she had just about exactly the five minutes she wanted before Shawn broke.

Black-haired Mia was a little chubby and had a sweet face; she seemed nervous and not much the stockbroker type. "I don't deal in hot commodities," she explained. "I'm for more cautious investors."

She explained that she'd only known Paco for a few weeks, after being set up on a blind date by a mutual friend. They had two dates prior to Saturday night.

"He was sweet. He seemed like a good guy."

"Did he talk about himself much?"

"Mostly his kids. They looked really cute in the photos he showed me."

"Did he seem happy in his work?"

Mia shrugged. "I guess so. He didn't really complain about anything in particular. He was pretty relaxed about most everything." She smiled faintly. "I liked him."

"What did you do on Saturday night?"

"We saw _2 Guns_ and then went to Ringo's."

Ringo's was the bar close to Willow Floral, no more than a few doors away from the alley where Paco died.

"Speaking of guns," Juliet asked carefully, "did he ever talk about them?"

"No, thank God. I can't stand them."

"Interesting movie choice, then."

The young woman smiled. "Hello, Denzel?"

Juliet laughed. "Good point. How long were you at Ringo's?"

"A couple of hours. I was having a good time but I had to be up early in the morning so I didn't want to… umm…" She flushed. "Get anything started."

"I understand." She smiled. "Did he drink much while you were there?"

"We both had a few, but we weren't drunk. He put me in a cab about midnight."

"He didn't leave with you?"

"No, he said he was going to walk a little. He said he liked to walk, and the neighborhood was pretty safe."

_Poor Paco. Of all nights to be wrong. _

Juliet asked for the name of the cab company, and as she was jotting it down, Mia added, "I think he knew the cabbie."

"How so?"

"I don't mean like _knew_, knew. More like they'd seen each other around. They said something to each other about the Chargers versus the 49ers."

"Okay, good." They could track down the cabbie to verify Mia's story, not that Juliet had any doubts about it. "Do you happen to know if he had much cash with him? There wasn't any found at the crime scene."

Mia nodded. "He paid for the movie tickets and popcorn with a credit card, but it was cash for the drinks. He gave the cabbie a good tip and it looked to me like he still had plenty left in his wallet."

Juliet made a note to check his bank records, to figure out how much cash the child-support-paying bricklayer might have started out with. "One last thing," she said carefully. "The daisies."

Mia got a little misty-eyed. "On our second date we talked about flowers and stuff and I told him I was never big on fancy arrangements. I told him I liked daisies." She let out a small sigh. "When they were delivered yesterday I tried to call him to say thanks. I wondered why I didn't hear back."

Paco ordered the flowers before they went to the movies, Juliet reflected. He wanted to surprise her the next day, and was sweetly confident their date would go well.

Giving Mia time to completely compose herself, she said, "In a minute some police consultants are coming in here to talk to you. One of them is going to seem pretty strange but don't take any offense. He's a good guy but his methods are…"

_What? Juvenile? Idiotic? Frequently insulting?_

Her stomach roiled again. _Stay down, soup. Stay down! _

Mia was waiting for her to finish.

All she could come up with was, "You'll see. Just… be patient with them. And… I'm sorry in advance."

As she went back into Observation, Dobson texted her: _On the way in. Couldn't hold 'em off any more_.

Shawn was first down the steps and into the hall. "Where's the femme fatale?"

_He thinks he knows everything._

"Go to it." She held the door open, and he looked askance at her.

"You're not coming in?"

"I'll be here in Observation."

Gus followed him uneasily, and she and Dobson remained at the mirror to watch the show.

Which was embarrassing, and consisted of Mia _trying_ to repeat the information she'd given Juliet between interruptions from Shawn as he 'psychically' deduced she was left-handed (her tissue was in her left hand), had an aversion to dark colors (she was wearing pastels) and loved pasta and ice cream (a wild guess, since she wasn't svelte).

_Once you know what to look for, it's so easy to see he's a fraud. Why the hell did it take me so long?_

Dobson looked at her. "What's he accomplishing?"

She shrugged and told him about the cabbie.

"Silvers checked out the bar but no one remembered seeing Paco."

"They might remember a pretty girl like Mia."

"I'll check it out. You want me to take the boys?"

"Yes, if you don't mind. I'll talk to Brian Rafferty after I run down the cabbie's name."

Shawn burst out of the room—Gus stayed behind a moment to apologize to Mia, who looked stunned—and declared her to be irrelevant to the case. "Accompanied by my blood brother Burton, I will now go find the gun-runner, who is _clearly_ the cabbie—"

Juliet shook her head. "You're going to Ringo's with Dobson. See if anyone there remembers Paco."

"Jules, I work a case the way I work a case."

"If you want to get through the day without a paycut, you'll work it Trout's way: by the book." She left Observation without a look back, hearing Dobson tell them soothingly they could stop for tacos on the way to Ringo's.

Whatever worked.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Trout dropped by her desk later and demanded an update. She was going to tell him Brian Rafferty had of course had no new information, but looking up at her tormentor, she considered another speech instead.

_No change. I still think you're evil, I still think everything about your role here is a mistake, I'd like to march into Mayor Swagerty's office with a baseball bat—already stained with your blood—and bestow a few carefully chosen words upon him, and then I—_

"Well?" he snapped, pale eyes focused on her.

_I could just quit._

_And pay for the stapler later._

But a commotion up front took their attention, and word came down very quickly that a couple of morons impersonating drag-racers had caused a massive pile-up on the 101. At least twelve cars wrecked, some fatalities, major injuries, major gawking; crowd control and other police presence needed _stat_.

Juliet was on her way there herself while Trout was still barking orders at everyone who already knew damned well what to do.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Showering off the sweat and road grime, far too late that evening, Juliet tried to suppress the images of carnage she'd seen that afternoon. Twisted metal, shocked faces, blood, chaos.

The various law enforcement branches had worked together well but she thought more than once that they could have used a Carlton on the scene, someone who could effortlessly get people moving and yet stay on target. Carlton thrived on order.

She felt sick again remembering her epiphany earlier. She felt sicker knowing how she'd brushed him off too many times by immediately flying to Shawn's defense.

Warm water sluiced down her body, but inside she was cold.

_It doesn't matter now. It's too late to fix. He told you what he thinks and he _left_ you here alone._

Then anger returned: _he should have been there today. Right in the thick of things. He shouldn't have let Trout win!_

_He shouldn't have left me._

But just as quickly, she flashed back to seeing him on Saturday: hearing his smoky voice saying what his crystal blue eyes confirmed as truth: he still valued her, and wished he hadn't hurt her.

It was a long shower. There were so many tears to wash away.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Shawn, at bedtime, fussed about having Dobson babysit him and Gus.

"We saw through your plan," he scolded, apparently unaware Gus had aided and abetted that plan.

"You need a keeper." She picked out a blouse to wear tomorrow, listening to him blather on about the bar and how they found waiter Biff who'd served Paco and Mia and said they seemed like a nice couple. Biff thought Paco might have been in before alone but never caused any trouble—all about what Juliet had expected to hear—but finally Shawn said something which caught her full attention.

"It took us forever to lose him." He stretched out on the bed, hands behind his head.

Juliet turned slowly, already filled with dread. "Who?"

"Dobson. Guy's pretty sharp, I gotta say."

"He has kids," she said absently. "What did you do?"

He grinned. "Just a little game of hide and seek. Gus and I went down to Willow Floral and made some real progress."

She sank down onto the opposite edge of the bed. "Like what?"

"Well, for starters, those people are complete phonies."

_Hell no_. "In what way?"

"Nobody's that straight-up nice, Jules. _All_ fine upstanding people working in _one_ business? Related, even? No chance."

Chills. "What did you do?"

Shawn scratched his stomach. "What I always do. I tried to get them to show their true colors."

"What did you _do_?"

"The usual, Jules. Twenty questions. I Spy. Name that song. I don't have a set routine. Things just happen as they happen."

_Oh, dear God._

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"Two vases. Several floral arrangements. A cracked glass countertop. Oh, and at least one missing lunch."

Trout rocked on his heels, surveying Juliet, Dobson, Shawn and Gus.

It was ten a.m. and Shawn was still sleepy, but Gus was completely alert and wearing the terrified expression he usually had in Trout's presence.

"Damage to the smoke alarm too. Curious about how you managed that, Spencer."

"Oh, well, it was easy. I stood on a—"

"Not _that_ curious, so shut it. Consider this your first warning. I wasn't going to dock your fee until the second warning, but the Raffertys are very upset, and restitution for the damages to their property is absolutely not coming out of the police department's budget."

Gus opened his mouth and then closed it again.

Trout grinned—how could a mere trout look so much like a shark? "You're wondering what happens if you get thrown off the case before you earn a fee at all? What happens is the SBPD bills you directly for those damages, and if you don't pay up, we press charges."

Shawn raised his hand. "Why do people say that? _Press_ charges? Pressing is ironing, right? What did it originally mean—ironing the suspect?"

The shark grinned more widely. "The old methods really _were_ the best, don't you think?"

Gus made a small sound of distress.

"Detectives O'Hara and Dobson, absolutely _non_-stellar work corralling the Low-IQ Twins. Where's the progress on my case?"

Juliet answered evenly, "Still no sign of a gun connection. Waiting for detailed ballistics on the bullet. Silvers and others are canvassing the area again."

"Not good enough. I expect either results by the end of the day, or someone's head on my wall."

His timer went off. She wished his head would blow off.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Dobson apologized profusely for letting Shawn and Gus—mostly Shawn—elude him the day before. By the time he realized he'd been played, he too had gotten a call to report to the pile-up on 101, and he hadn't thought to warn her.

"It doesn't matter," she assured him. "Everything that happened could easily have happened while you were standing right there with them." Bitter experience.

He still felt guilty, so she set him on tracking down the cabbie.

As for Shawn and Gus, she told them coldly to go find Silvers in the neighborhood where Paco Garcia was killed and do some non-invasive canvassing of their own.

_Gus_ understood. He also found a moment later to text her that as far as he could tell, the Raffertys really were very nice people and all Shawn had done was upset them and half-destroy their shop.

Left alone at her desk, she went over everything again, and again, and again. Every name, every bit of information about Paco. Where the hell was this gun connection if it was the reason he was dead?

Miller stopped at her desk to drop off the final case report on last week's Hamilton park murder. To clear her head, she went through that file, making sure everything was in order for the DA to proceed.

She remembered the elusive Lil referring to Carlton as Mean Guy.

_God, I want that Mean Guy _here_, demanding an answer for why I'm sitting at _his_ desk._

She remembered, with a private smile, Lil's explanation of how she knew Carlton was anything _but_ mean at heart—where it counted.

And then she remembered something else.

Something which could help.

Lil wasn't Mean Guy's only informant.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

One last review of the application, and Carlton hit 'submit.'

There. Two positions applied for: Ventura and Santa Paula. He liked the less citified location of Santa Paula better, but he was acquainted with some very good cops in Ventura, so either one would do.

He'd considered LA again, but had come to the conclusion that he was done proving himself, and the LAPD was a place for younger cops.

_You're not exactly decrepit._

No, but after twenty years of service he wasn't interested in starting at the bottom, and besides, if Santa Barbara law enforcement had red tape, Los Angeles had the red tape factory.

He didn't need to work at all for awhile, not financially. His retirement income would pay for a small apartment somewhere. But as he'd known all along, he _had_ to work. At something. Somewhere. Sitting alone and idle would be torture.

_You don't have to be alone._

Yeah, right. Women were lined up outside his door _all_ the time.

As if to mock his self-doubt, the cell rang.

He breathed out her name as he saw it on the screen, and let the phone ring once more before he answered.

"Juliet?"

"Carlton, hi. I need a little police favor. If you can."

Her tone was brisk, but he heard the uncertainty behind it. Eight years of spending nearly every day together had taught him the nuances of her speech.

"If I can, I will."

"Thanks." She cleared her throat. "I'm… uh… having a little trouble with a case. Trout trouble, mainly."

"What can I do?"

"Last week I met one of your informers. She didn't tell me her name, but I figured out she must be the one you called Lil?"

"Greenwood Park," he said at once. He had read about the Hamilton murder in the paper when he got back from the fishing trip, and Lil had always been a good source.

"Yes. She…" Juliet hesitated, and he knew she was smiling as she finished, "She called you Mean Guy."

"That's Lil." He'd never taken offense at the epithet, which she first used when she was distraught over her injured dog. "And I probably was mean."

"No," she said, but it was probably habit to defend him, even now. "But anyway, this case I have. Trout says there's some sort of weapons connection, but I can't find anything at all. I was thinking I remembered you having a CI who kept you in the loop about off-the-record gun sales?"

Buck Lightner. He'd often called Carlton names a lot worse than Mean Guy, but over the years he'd mellowed. Maybe they both had.

"I… yeah. I do."

She paused. "Um, I was hoping you could hook me up with him?"

Carlton took a breath.

Juliet went on, "I know you might not trust me to handle it right, but—"

"No, it's—"

"And I know you want to keep your informants confidential, and you should."

"It's not that. It's—"

"But if he can help me solve this murder, I would really appreciate it, because that's the best thing, isn't it? Justice?"

"Juliet."

She stopped, and her next—much softer—words shook him. "It's so strange to hear you call me that."

He felt himself flushing, glad she couldn't see. "Sorry."

"No. It's fine. I like it. It's… anyway, what were you going to say?"

_Wow. Steady on, bud._

"He's a bit touchy with new people."

"Well…"

_Oh, just man up already and say the logical thing. _

"If you don't mind me going with you, I think I can smooth the path."

There was a pause at her end. Long enough to make him uncomfortable, but he wasn't conning her: it had taken a while to get Lightner on his team, and no way would the man open up to Juliet her first time out.

"Okay. Yes. But it has to be today. Like… now." She was back to brisk, but he could work with that, because brisk _wasn't_ 'I never want to see you again.'

"Let me lay the groundwork. I'll call you back in a minute."

"Not necessary. I'm heading over to pick you up right now."

_There_ was his decisive partner.

_Ex-partner._

"See you in ten," he said mildly.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_This is just two law enforcement colleagues working together to solve a murder. _

_You already know he's not angry with you—Saturday's meeting made that clear—and you're so mixed up about him and everything else lately that honestly it'll be a relief to just get some _work_ done with someone you know well._

Dobson was a good, solid guy but the truth was no one else would ever be… Carlton.

What had Karen Vick told her?

"_You complete each other… you outlasted all the reasons you were outwardly a terrible fit."_

Something to be proud of, she reflected, and she always had been.

Carlton was on the steps of his condo building when she pulled up in the Crown Vic. He hadn't shaved in a while and he was wearing lived-in jeans and a black pullover shirt, and the blue of his eyes as he got in and smiled cautiously was every blue imaginable.

"Hi," she said, wondering why it came out breathlessly.

"Hey." Then he frowned. "You okay?"

It wasn't a question he'd asked much when they were partners, but when he _did_ ask, he seriously wanted to know.

"There's… a lot going on."

His blue gaze focused on her for a few more seconds. "You _okay_?" he repeated meaningfully.

Juliet sighed. "I'll tell you later. Where are we going?"

He gave her an address. "The guy is Buck Lightner. You'll find him in the system with some weapons charges, mostly illegal sales. But he knows his stuff and he's usually careful who he sells to."

"How'd you get him on your side?"

"He offered some info to slide out of an arrest ten years ago, and I took him up on it." He grinned. "Worked out pretty well, and he always calls me when he's got a sale going on in his shop."

"Oh, he's legal?"

"Antique weapons, mostly."

Juliet smiled. Right up his alley: guns _and_ history.

"What's the case? If… you're… at liberty to say, that is."

She rolled her eyes. "It's a little too soon for me to play the 'I can't comment on active investigations' card with you."

"Well, my retirement hasn't been approved yet so technically I might still be on the force."

_If only._

"Good enough for me. The victim is Paco Garcia, shot in the head Saturday night a block from Willow Floral. I can't find even one single bit of information to support this, but Trout insists there's a link between Willow and gun trafficking."

Carlton frowned.

_God, I've missed that frown._

_Would you get yourself together? _

"Willow Floral. I've heard of it, but never anything about weapons activity there." Without undue arrogance, he added, "I know my gun hotspots."

"I was counting on that."

_This is so easy. So familiar._

The unshaved face wasn't familiar, but the vivid blue eyes and the scowl as a teenager on a bicycle gave Juliet the finger when she honked at him for zigzagging across the street—those were wonderfully familiar.

He glanced at her. "What?"

Juliet only smiled, more to herself than him. "Is this the place?"

Lightner Military Treasure was nestled incongruously between a deli and a Pilates studio. "I did call ahead," Carlton said before he got out. "Told him I was bringing a guest."

She was relieved: for all her bravado in the moments before she'd pressed the button next to his name on her cell phone, she knew too well the flightiness of informants, and having Carlton pave the way was simply sensible if she hoped to get any assistance from Lightner.

"Been awhile," the grizzled man at the counter said when Carlton followed her into the dim store.

"You miss me?"

"Did I say that?" Lightner gave a toothy grin. "This your lady friend?"

"No, she's my dietician. You got time to talk?"

Lightner laughed. "Touchy. Yeah, come on back. Boris!" he yelled, and a dusty man older than the Alamo appeared from behind a curtain. "Mind the counter a minute, Dad."

"Marflggh," said Boris, shuffling past and smelling oddly of both gunpowder and apple pie.

They followed Lightner through that same curtain and down a short hall to a closed door, which he unlocked to allow them entrance to a cluttered office.

"Sit," he said, pointing. "Lookin' kinda shaggy there, Lassiter."

Carlton rubbed his face. "Retirement's made me lazy."

"Only been a week, man. Awful fast for _your_ standards to be slipping."

"I gave my standards to her." He gestured to Juliet. "This is my former partner."

"Yeah, I know her." Lightner settled in behind the antique oak desk. "Got herself on TV last week—with _your_ job."

Juliet felt uncomfortable. "It wasn't my choice."

He ignored her. "What brings you by, former Head Detective?"

"First, I want your assurance that any time Detective O'Hara calls on you for any reason, you'll give her all the help and ten times the courtesy you've given me over the years."

Carlton's blue eyes locked with Lightner's faded hazel eyes.

"Not bad," Lightner finally said. "Delivered with the right amount of authority. But you'd do better to _ask_ me, since I don't owe _her_ a damn thing."

"Well, I do. And any cop _I_ owe, _you_ owe."

There was a long pause while they eyed each other again, and then Lightner shrugged. "Fine. You've haven't done me wrong so far."

"She won't either."

The sheer… _possessive_… tone in Carlton's voice gave Juliet a little chill.

The fact that it was a _good_ chill gave her goosebumps.

Neither of these physiological reactions was helping her do her job, however.

She found her voice. "I'd appreciate it if you could tell me anything you know about weapons activity associated with either Willow Floral or the Rafferty family."

He looked at her fully for the first time. "Willow Floral?"

"Yes."

He frowned. "Never heard of it."

"What about the Raffertys?"

"Rafferty? Huh. Well, I was eighteen when _Baker Street_ came out. Helped me score with my first girlfriend."

Carlton scowled. "Don't be an ass."

"What? No harm in a little reminiscing." He straightened up in his chair. "I never heard of Willow Floral, and the closest I got to a Rafferty in my acquaintance is an autographed photo of the late Deborah Raffin."

Juliet tried again. "It's four doors down from Ringo's, near the corner of San Juan and Southwick."

"I don't care where it is. I never heard of it."

_Assert yourself._

"I don't care if you don't care. I need you to think about what I'm asking you. Is there, to your knowledge, anything going on in or near that neighborhood which involves gun trafficking?"

He held her gaze a few moments, then sighed and pulled a city map out of his desk drawer. Finding the intersection, he pondered it for a minute while Carlton, next to Juliet, radiated growing impatience.

_I even miss _that_._

"No," Lightner said with finality. "The closest I can get you is a mile over, and that guy's not operating anymore. If there's something going on at Willow Floral, it's too quiet for the street to pick up." He folded the map, adding coolly, "And I have great hearing, lady."

"Good. I expect to call on it again sometime." She stood up, knowing she'd won some small round despite his manner.

Carlton rose too, standing at the door while she gave a curt thanks to Buck Lightner, and whether they spoke after she strode through the shop past Boris, she didn't know.

But Carlton caught up with her soon enough, sliding into the Vic and buckling up as she drove off.

"Can I trust what he said?"

"Yeah. He doesn't lie to me much, and I don't think he'll waste time lying to you in the future. What's this case really about?"

"It's about Trout looking for an excuse to fire me," she said matter-of-factly.

Carlton looked at her, blue eyes again raking her over.

It was so strange, really.

_I don't remember ever feeling so... exposed... to him before._

"Pull over," he said. "Tell me everything that son of a bitch is doing to make you miserable."

There it was again. That possessive tone from earlier.

Her hands tensed on the wheel, because the chills were back too. The good ones, dammit.

"Juliet. I told you before. If I _can_ help you, I will. _Always_."

Her breath caught.

Slowly, she pulled the car to a stop in front of a little park by the sea.

_Something is changing_, she thought as she got out of the car and walked beside him to a bench facing the ocean.

_Maybe it's me._

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	8. Chapter 8: The View From The Bench

**CHAPTER EIGHT: The View From The Bench**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

She really did look very tired, he thought. Still lovely—_always_ lovely—but tired.

When he first got in the car back at Prospect Gardens, he was sure she was as apprehensive as he was about their meeting.

But her tension seemed to fade quickly, and soon he felt about as comfortable as it was possible to feel with someone you'd blindsided the week before. It wasn't quite like the old days, but it was blessedly familiar to work with her… even if it was only five minutes of a battle of wills with Buck Lightner.

But now that it was just the two of them again, no task at hand, he could see she was on edge for reasons he intended to have made clear to him. It was one thing to know _he'd_ been the source of her stress, but quite an unacceptable another to allow anyone else to do that to her.

She settled onto the bench, arms folded, facing the sea. The sun lit her golden hair and eased some of the shadows back from her dark blue eyes.

"O'Hara."

His use of her last name was deliberate.

Juliet smiled, still looking at the ocean. "You can't call me that anymore."

He smiled too. "You know why I did all those years."

"Yeah. You needed a barrier." She glanced at him. "I know I was supposed to say 'because it's what cops do,' but I figured out really early that you needed a barrier between us."

Carlton nodded, unsurprised she'd understood even back then. "But _you_ didn't."

She shook her head, gaze back on the horizon. "I didn't _want_ a barrier. I never did." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I still don't."

His heart clutched in his chest, and he wished he could take back the pain he'd caused her.

Juliet cleared her throat. "Trout's elaborate plan is to drag Psych into investigations until he can censure them enough to allow him to justify censuring me, with my termination or resignation his ultimate goal." She said it calmly, as if it were an everyday sort of proclamation along the lines of _I had a nice lunch_ or _I wish it would rain_.

Carlton stared at her, looking for any signs it was a joke.

"Because he knows Spencer will be compelled to out-ass himself."

Juliet nodded, seemingly unfazed by the slur to her boyfriend.

"And Spencer is arrogant enough to assume that solving the case will be justification for his ridiculous behavior."

She nodded again. The ocean breeze stirred her hair, and she absently tucked a strand behind her ear.

"Leaving you in the middle between a megalomaniac who wants you out and a jerk who's willing to risk your job so he can keep on acting like an asshat."

Tilting her head, she nodded.

"Crap on an egg timer," he growled.

She laughed out loud. "_That_, I hadn't thought of. He has a new one, you know."

"Of course he does. So what's up with Willow Floral?"

This made her finally turn a little to face him directly. "Dobson and I have been through everything. This morning he was working on tracking down the cabbie who gave the victim's date a ride home. It's ridiculous, yes, but we're checking everything. Next step I guess is to pull out all the stops to investigate the Raffertys, but I swear, Carlton, if those people are dirty, I'll deliver my badge to Trout personally on a… on a silver-plated trout."

He was silent a moment. "Has Spencer brought anything to the game?"

Her gaze fell. "Other than traumatizing the Raffertys, no. I sent him back out with Gus to canvass the neighborhood and texted Silvers to keep them on a short leash."

"You think that'll work?" he asked skeptically.

"Maybe. He's a lot faster than Dobson. I also authorized him to use deadly force."

Carlton couldn't help but smirk, which had the delightful effect of making Juliet smile, which in turn stripped away yet more layers of her stress.

_So beautiful. She has no idea._

She began to tell him about the case, starting with Trout's initial declaration about a gun connection to Willow, and moving on to their study of the life of Paco Garcia. Listening to her breaking it down—watching her focused on what she loved to do—was a reminder of how well they'd worked together despite great differences of personality and even mindset. Although they often had wildly divergent viewpoints about cases, he'd never doubted her judgment in any area.

Other than Spencer, that is. And the ridiculous high heels. (Not that he minded how she _looked_ in them.)

She wound down, and as if to accentuate the end of the tale, her phone buzzed. Answering—mouthing "Dobson" for his benefit—she said "okay" a few times and thanked him before disconnecting.

"Nothing doing on the cabbie," she said. "The company confirms he dropped Mia off and had continuous fares for the next two hours. There was no opportunity for him to swing back around near Ringo's or Willow Floral to shoot Paco, even if he had a gun. Or a motive."

"You don't know yet how much cash Garcia had on hand?"

"No. When I ran through his financials the first time I was looking for large withdrawals or deposits." She scowled. "With Trout breathing down my neck demanding results."

Carlton leaned back and stretched his legs out. "Putting aside my natural paranoia, but how do you know this whole gun-trafficking thing isn't just a red herring?"

"I don't," she said simply. "The more he pushes, the harder I'll look. The harder I have to look, the more reason he has to keep Shawn involved. And the more Shawn's involved…"

He got it. "Yeah. Flaming vegan monkey butts."

Juliet laughed again. Then she said softly, "I really missed you the last few months."

He glanced at her, surprised, and although it sounded gruff, his response was honest: "Ditto."

She blinked rapidly—he couldn't help but wonder if it was to force back tears—and turned to the sea. "Anyway, it _has_ crossed my mind that Trout invented the gun connection just to yank me around, but he'd have to know it could backfire on him."

Carlton pondered, trying to think the way Trout would think. "He's amping up the pressure to get you to quit. Or fired after you stomp on his new timer. With you out of the way, he can re-fire Psych, put a new set of detectives on the case and proceed as if the gun-trafficking theory never existed."

Juliet eyed him a moment, and then gestured to her feet. High heels, of course, in shiny dark blue. "These are new. But I promise you, Carlton, when _I_ stomp on that timer, it's already going to be in his gullet."

He had to laugh. "That's my girl."

And it was the wrong thing to say.

She looked away again, but some of her tension was back.

_Dammit. That's _my girl_? Holy hellacious dammit._

"Call Trout's bluff," he said abruptly, to put distance between himself and his big damned stupid mouth.

"What? How do you mean?"

Now that he'd thrown it out there, he had to figure out what the hell he _did_ mean. "Tell him you have a CI who confirms some sort of gun trafficking out of Willow."

Juliet stared at him. "But—"

"If he's on the up and up, he has no choice but to let you pursue it. If he's not, the last thing he'll do is call _your_ bluff, because it would be an admission he was trying to set you up."

She studied him a moment, puzzling it out. "But what if he really does believe there's a gun connection, and he's just… wrong?"

"Then solving the case will bear that out." He was more confident now.

"Well, I wish I _could_ solve the case," she said, frustrated. "Guns or not, Paco Garcia is still dead and it's still my job to find out who killed him. I feel like I'm wasting time tracking mythical gun-runners."

"You're not wasting time as long as you're eliminating suspects."

Restless, she got up from the bench and looked down at him. "Are you sure I can trust Buck Lightner?"

"Yeah. He doesn't lie to me, and he won't lie to you." He stood as well, and when she started to move back toward the Crown Vic, he walked beside her. "I have a couple of other sources. They're not as informed as Lightner but they have their uses and I could check with them if you want."

"Please do." She paused at the car door and tucked a few more strands of hair behind her ears, and he wished he could do that for her. "Did Lightner say something else to you after I left?"

Carlton hesitated.

Juliet frowned. "Come on, Carlton. Any information is good information at this point."

He couldn't let her wonder if he was holding out on her. "It wasn't about the case. He just said he liked you."

A trace of amusement curved her mouth. "You're kidding."

"You know I don't kid," he assured her sternly. "He said you'd do. He liked you."

"What did you say?"

"I said everyone liked you." The moment the words were out of his mouth he regretted them, for Juliet's smile vanished and her dark blue eyes instantly seemed to go darker.

"I'm surprised," she murmured, a world of hurt in those simple words as she unlocked the car door.

He wished he were roadkill. "Juliet."

"No, it's okay." The dreaded 'brisk' was back. "Get in. I'll take you home."

It sounded an awful lot like _if you get in this car I'll shoot you and dump your worthless carcass in a dumpster_.

"Juliet_, wait_." His heart was twisting again.

She looked at him only after she was in the car. "Forget it, Carlton. Are you getting in?"

"I'll walk," he managed. "But—"

"Thanks for your help." She reached for the door to close it, and finally he could move; he gripped the top of the frame and forced it back open. Her eyes went wide.

He leaned in and spoke fiercely. "Seeing the partnership dying didn't mean I forgot our years together and what you meant to me. What you'll _always_ mean to me."

Juliet's eyes filled with tears and she tried to speak.

He needed her to believe this. He _needed_ it.

"Okay." Two syllables, and a trembling lower lip. But she looked away, color returning to her cheeks.

Carlton let go of the doorframe. "I'll let you know what my other CIs say."

She mumbled "Thank you," and drove away rapidly.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Instead of going back to work, Juliet went home. She knew there was no food there, but she needed to have a moment sans people, sans chaos.

She made a cup of tea and sat at the table sipping, trying to make sense of her emotions.

But there was so much: there was first and foremost a simple longing to have Carlton back in her daily life. Yes, he could be an utterly paranoid and angry pain in the ass—but he was her friend and her partner and the rock of her professional life, and because they were cops who spent every day together, professional seeped into personal until there was no clear division between the two.

There was anger because he had left her. Left her alone there to face Trout. He'd abandoned his post, which wasn't just to be a cop but also to be _her partner_.

There was regret for all the things she knew she'd done—whether she wanted to examine them closely or not—which caused him to lose faith in her.

There was pain because she could see and _feel_ so very deeply and clearly that he still cared for her.

"_I loved you for a long time. I know you knew."_

A sob escaped, there in her sunny, quiet kitchen, because she _had_ known. She'd sensed it years ago and kept it on the edge of her awareness, as a lovely but scary thing from which she could take both comfort and power.

Lovely… because he was a good man, an attractive and vital and honorable and gloriously-blue-eyed man who wanted _her_. Scary because he was her partner, and screwing that up would be a disaster for many, many reasons.

_Falling for a man like Carlton would be a forever, no-looking-back kind of deal. _

It was a curious form of arrogance in a way: knowing the depth of his feelings for her provided a certainty that he'd always be at her side. And as long as he never upset the balance of their relationship by trying to act on those feelings, they were all the stronger for it.

He was supposed to have found someone else after she got involved with Shawn.

_(Even though you weren't comfortable about him finding Marlowe.)_

His feelings were supposed to… fade… _naturally_.

_(But not in favor of Marlowe. Maybe some nameless faceless woman you couldn't see for yourself was sweet and pretty and made him happy.)_

He wasn't supposed to figure out she was just an ordinary flawed woman who'd been coasting through their friendship.

"Selfish idiot," she whispered to the teacup.

But that went for Carlton too, and the swing of emotions settled back on anger: _he left her_. He said harsh things to her and he left her here with this mess. _That_ was selfish. _That_ was idiocy. That was _cruel_.

_And why do you care so much? You have Shawn._

Yeah. Shawn.

She drank the rest of her tea, closing her mind to the tumult of her personal life, and went back to the tumult of her professional life.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

After combing through the financial records of everyone associated with Willow Floral, Juliet went around again on Paco Garcia's finances as well. Calls to Mia Montoya and Ringo's, balanced against his ATM withdrawal the afternoon before his death, left her pretty certain that he had at least seventy dollars in his wallet after putting Mia in the cab to go home.

Not much to be killed for.

On Monday she'd also spoken to his ex-wife, with whom he'd been on good terms. The woman said he'd been careful with money and not prone to spontaneous expenditures. She saw him regularly because of his visits with their children, and there had been no trouble, ever.

Late afternoon, Carlton texted her.

_Checked sources. Convinced there's NO gun trafficking out of Willow or even in that area._

She texted back the word _thanks_, relieved he hadn't called instead. She doubted that smoky voice in her ear would do her any good right now.

_I _am_ going to maintain an even keel._

_Sure you are, honey._

Trout summoned her to his office an hour later, close to five. "Well?"

Ten minutes earlier, she'd heard from Officer Silvers about a possible lead; he was bringing Shawn and Gus in to report.

"Nothing on gun trafficking. Silvers is bringing in a new lead any minute now."

Trout glanced at his timer. "Shall we test that?"

_Ass._

She went ahead with Plan B. "Is it possible your source was wrong about Willow?"

His pale brows went up. "Excuse me?"

"Your source. Is it possible he or she was wrong or misinformed?" Polite. Reasonable.

His jacket was off and his sleeves were rolled up, and he folded his arms in a way which seemed almost threatening, assessing her as if she'd just accused him of murder. "Detective O'Hara, are you suggesting I would _knowingly_ pass on bad information to officers of the law?"

_Yes, but that's not the point._

"I'm asking how much longer you want me to work the Willow angle in the absence of any even _in_substantial reasons to do so." Still polite. Still reasonable.

"You don't get to call the shots," he snapped, but before he could say more, Silvers tapped on the door, Shawn and Gus behind him. "Finally!"

Silvers looked a little worn out. Juliet made a mental note to treat him to coffee sometime for his babysitting duties today.

Gus, for that matter, also looked a little worn out.

Shawn, in contrast, looked perky and alert. Sidling up to Juliet, he tried to put his arm around her shoulders. "Sweetie, prepare to be amazed."

_Oh, no. Not here. Not now. _

_Enough, O'Hara._

Juliet—aware of Trout smirking—held up one finger to indicate she'd be right back, then grabbed Shawn's wrist and dragged him out of the office and across the hall.

"That's really kinda hot," he said. "You must have missed me."

She knew full well Trout was standing in the door watching, so she kept her voice to a low hiss. "Shawn, I am not only a trained police officer, but I am also currently the Head Detective of the SBPD and as such, I have authority over you and other civilians. When you are in my workplace, and most particularly when you are in the presence of my stinking supervisor, you will Not. Ever. refer to our personal relationship. You will not put your arm around me or try to hold my hand. You will not call me 'sweetie' or 'honey' or 'snookums.' You will not slap my ass or do anything else of a demeaning, chauvinistic or possessive nature. You will treat me with respect—and actually, you should treat me with the same respect even when we're not at work."

His mouth hung open. "What did I do?"

"You got me to accept a level of treatment which has been remarked upon by my colleagues in way as to make it clear that _I_ look like a passive idiot." She took a breath. "I tolerated it too long because I was comfortable in my position here, so I accept my responsibility in making it worse. But it's done now. You understand? You call me Juliet—not Jules—_Juliet_. Or Detective O'Hara. That's it. And no touching, ever. Clear?"

His mouth was still hanging open. "Uh…"

She turned on her heel and went back to the office, brushing by Trout before even giving him a chance to step out of her way. Shawn followed slowly.

"Officer Silvers?" she asked politely.

He pulled himself up straight. "It was Mr. Spencer's suggestion that we spend time today at Ringo's, talking to the staff and management."

"Plus he was probably hungry," Trout observed. "Is there anything left of their peanut supply?"

Shawn started to speak; Juliet glared at him.

Silvers wisely ignored the question. "We have a potential suspect. I ran him through the database and he's been previously arrested for possession, mugging and attempted burglary. His name is Bobby Howard."

Trout frowned. "How did you get this name?"

Shawn's hand started to creep toward his temple; seeing Juliet's next glare, he merely said, "It's what I do, Interim Chief Trout. I suss things out psychically."

Juliet looked at Silvers. "What happened?"

"I spoke with a waitress who mentioned that one of the busboys has a friend who's been asked more than once by management to stop hanging around the back entrance and kitchen."

"I'm really more of a cashew man," Shawn interrupted, "so I was at the other end of the bar."

Silvers wisely ignored this too; Trout rolled his eyes; Gus sighed.

"Mr. Guster approached the busboy in question while I was finishing up with the waitress, and he freely gave us the name of his friend."

Shawn broke in, "At which point I intervened and got to the heart of the matter."

"Actually," Trout said, "it sounds like you went in and snacked while Silvers and Guster did all the work."

"Excuse me, but in the first place, proper nutrition is essential to the psychic brain's physique, and in the second place, _I_ was able to determine the busboy gave factual information."

"Do tell." There was so much sarcasm dripping off Trout's words, it nearly puddled on the floor.

Juliet forestalled Shawn's response by asking Silvers, "What did the waitress and the busboy say about Howard?"

"The waitress called him creepy and threatening and said he used to pressure everyone to loan him money until the manager threatened to ban him completely. The busboy admitted Howard had some anger management issues."

Juliet liked it. This was a far more likely scenario for Paco Garcia's murder than some mythical gun trafficking operation.

"I'll look deeper," she said, as he handed over his notes. "Good work, guys."

"Well, good work _Silvers_," Trout contradicted. "Looks like what's left of the fee for services rendered should be made out to _your_ half of the so-called agency, Guster."

Gus actually took a step back.

Shawn wasn't having any of what Trout was serving. "Well, we work as a team, so we get paid as a team. You may not be aware of that," he added silkily, "being new to how we operate."

Trout laughed, moving to stand behind his desk. "Doesn't sound like you did _any_ of the work today, Spencer. Silvers, any damages to Ringo's while you were there?"

All three men were silent.

"Silvers."

Silvers cleared his throat. "There may have been some damage to a jukebox."

Shawn sighed dramatically. "Who knew you weren't supposed to stand on them while checking out the angle of the security camera?"

_Oh, dear God._ Her heart sank.

Trout grinned and looked at Gus. "Guess you can forget about that paycheck."

"Yeah. Saw that coming." Gus sat down, shaking his head.

"It was minor damage! Scuffmarks at best! Come on, Trout, don't be an ass. Stuff like this happens all the time."

"To you, Spencer, because you're a moron. Did you just call me an ass?"

"I…" He smiled as if they were buddies. "I may have. In the spirit of camaraderie. Colleagues. Professionals getting along informally like professionals do."

"Hmmm. I see. Silvers, get me the damage estimate on the jukebox so I can figure out whether the Psychos will owe _us_ money by the time this is over. Spencer, Guster, you just got your second warning." He sat down, putting his hands behind his head. "O'Hara, as promised, you get your first warning. It'll be in your file before I go home."

Juliet wasn't even surprised. She was sick and sad and pissed off, but she wasn't surprised.

Shawn gaped. "You can't do that. She wasn't even there today. If anyone should get a warning, it's Silvers!"

Now Silvers gaped; even Gus was about to protest.

"Enough," Juliet declared. "Interim Chief Trout, do what you have to do. Shawn, Gus, go home. We'll track down Bobby Howard, and if we need you—"

"No," Shawn interrupted again. "This isn't right. I know my methods don't coincide with everyone else's but it's _wrong_ to punish other people for no reason. You might as well punish Miller for walking by in the hall just now."

Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Miller quicken his pace.

Trout was waiting, eyebrows up. "Anything else?"

"I think I was clear. If you need me to slap you with a trout, Trout, I'm sure I can get my dad to catch one for me."

The temperature dropped about twenty degrees.

Slowly, slowly, Trout stood up, but if anything, he seemed amused, and Juliet knew why: Shawn had just handed him his own head.

And half of hers.

"Strike three, Spencer. You and your BFF are fired. O'Hara, that warning has just become an official write-up for you. Silvers, get Ebony and Pasty out of here before I hear even one more word. Any questions?"

There were none.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	9. Chapter 9: Inconceivable

**CHAPTER NINE: Inconceivable**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet was freezing.

She could feel the cold slowly moving through her body. First her chest, then her head… her stomach and on down and across the rest of her skin and veins and blood cells and through her very bones until she might as well have been completely encased in immobilizing, sound-deadening ice.

A late summer day in Santa Barbara, and she was freezing.

Carlton had her in turmoil.

But Shawn had her in ice.

Trout too, of course. But Trout was actually _trying_ to aggravate and antagonize her.

Shawn was supposed to be on her side. The boyfriend. The supporter. The one _on her freaking side._

He and Gus stormed out after Trout's declaration—well, Gus ran out; Shawn huffed out—and now, half an hour later, she was on her way home with no clear idea of what the hell to say to Shawn to make him understand what had just happened.

She stopped to pick up a salad and drink—and a peanut butter banana shake—and when she got to the house, she went in through the back door to buy a little time. In the kitchen, she laid out her dinner on the table with her service weapon alongside.

Shawn came in to find her. "Jules! Can you believe that guy, firing us _after_ we brought him the first real suspect in the case?"

_Nothing like a little reality-rewrite._

"Hmm." She sipped from her shake. Delicious. As cold as she was.

His gaze fell to her dinner. "Anything there for me?"

With her free hand, she patted her weapon. "What do you think?"

He grinned. "I think if you have one hand on your gun and one on your shake, the rest of it's fair game."

"Ahhhh. Well see,_ I_ think that if you make one move toward any of the food that I paid for with my own money on a day I got written up," she said smoothly, "I'll have to give you a personal demonstration of my kickboxing skills."

It stilled his imminent grab, for sure.

"Ooookay." He pulled out the chair opposite and sat down. "But seriously, Trout? What is up his butt?"

"You. You are up his butt."

"_Me_?" Shock.

"And so am I. It's crowded in there, Shawn. Bound to make a guy cranky." But she knew she was the main target, and Shawn was merely—as Trout himself put it—a tool.

"That doesn't make sense!"

"Shawn, it's only been a few days since I explained to you what his plan was."

"Well, I didn't know you were serious."

She set the shake down, letting out a breath which she wished was as cleansing as it needed to be. "That's a lie."

Shawn blinked. "Okay, yeah, I knew you were serious. But I didn't know _he_ was serious. I mean, look how I stood up for you!"

Juliet laughed. "You stood up for me?"

"Hell yeah I did! You were standing right there!"

"Do you mean you stood up for me by A, treating me like your toy, B, blaming Silvers for your behavior, C, taking credit for what he and Gus did at Ringo's, and finally D, calling my supervisor an ass and threatening him with physical violence?"

"Which he _so_ had coming," Shawn said defiantly, cleverly ignoring A through C. "Guy _is_ an ass."

"I'm not arguing that point. But Shawn, are you going to let him play you like this?"

This got his attention—or his ego's attention. "The hell I am. What are you talking about?"

"He wants to use you to give him a reason to fire me. I told you this. You said you understood. But here you are, doing everything he wants you to do so he can achieve his end goal."

"Why the hell would he want to fire you?" He got up, pacing the kitchen, opening the cabinets and fridge. "Man, we gotta get some food in here."

She waited for anger. Felt only cold. "Buy some."

"Jules, we've been through this." _Again_, he managed to make it sound as if _she_ were unreasonable.

"Yes, we have. Get a job."

"It's not fair for you to bring food home like this and taunt me when I'm starving."

Her mouth hung open for a second. "Starving? When's the last time you ate?"

"That's not the point. Gus can't feed me every time I'm hungry."

"Neither can I." She stabbed a tomato with undue force.

"Just twenty bucks, Jules, and I'll go right now to pick up some staples."

_Right. Oh, right. _

"You would hit a churro stand on the way to the store. You would buy Doritos, frozen pizza, maybe a package of toilet paper but probably not, quite possibly some actual staples because you'd think it was funny, a kid's toy from the checkout aisle, and then you'd stop for tacos on the way home and be eating the Doritos as you come in the door. I would get one slice of pizza for breakfast, if and _only_ if I hide it from you somewhere."

Shawn frowned. "That's a bit harsh."

Juliet stood up to face him, and feeling unutterably, deeply, _cold_. "I got written up today. I've never been written up before, Shawn. I'm a good cop. I learned from the best and while I won't say I'm the best too, I know I'm damned good. So the worst thing about being written up is that it didn't have _anything_ to do with my work or my abilities at all. It's because of you and your… your gaping maw…" She had to stop, because her throat was closing up and her eyes were burning, and the thaw was starting but it wasn't the good kind. It was the kind which would flood the premises and wash away everything in its path forever.

Including this doomed, misbegotten relationship.

"Jules," he whispered. "Come on, sweetie."

She held out her hand to stop him coming closer to her.

"I'll make it up to you. I promise. I'll get a job. I'll buy the groceries. Come on. I can do this. And we'll figure out a way to get Trout off your case. Sweetie, please." His pleading sounded so genuine.

It probably was: despite how good a job he did pretending otherwise, Shawn could indeed read the writing on the wall, and she'd thrown him out before, which she was pretty sure he hadn't forgotten. Yet.

She was finally able to take another deep breath, and then another, and the pressure eased and the pounding of her head abated a little.

"Jules…" He took another step closer.

"No. I'm fine. I'm going to eat my dinner, and you're going to go back to playing whatever game you were playing when I came in, and then… and then I don't know what. But get out of the kitchen for now, Shawn. It's better for both of us."

He was about to speak—something coaxing, she suspected.

So she added flatly, "Mostly for you."

His mouth closed, and he nodded, and left her alone.

**. . . . **

**. . .**

Henry called Carlton on Wednesday to see if he might be interested in checking out the Fishing Expo on Saturday. He also threw in a suggestion about getting some lunch, and since Carlton had nothing going on except waiting for his retirement paperwork to be approved and hear from Ventura and Santa Paula while the condo seemed to get smaller every moment, he agreed.

They met at a deli near the pier. Henry pushed his cap off and settled into his chair in front of a large Reuben with chips, and Carlton wondered for the hundredth time how this shrewd, essentially focused guy could have produced the spastic anomaly that was Shawn Spencer.

They talked about the Expo a bit and dished on former coworkers. Henry said he'd heard a little more about Trout.

"Sounds like an egomaniac. I know the type."

"So do I."

"Heard he targets a few people he considers obstacles, moves them out, reshapes a department in his own image and then leaves town."

Carlton pointed at himself. "Target number one. He's going after O'Hara right now."

Henry was startled. "O'Hara? I can understand _you_ rubbing him the wrong way, but O'Hara?"

"Thanks," he said dryly. "Looks like guilt by association. He's using your demonspawn as a weapon against her."

"The hell? What do you—oh." His expression cleared. "Hold _her_ responsible for Shawn's screwups. Crap. That's not right."

"No it's not. But seriously, Henry. How the hell did you turn him into the Avatar of Asshattery? _You're_ smart. _You've_ got sense. _You_ can use silverware. What in God's name went wrong?"

Henry sighed. "You think I haven't asked myself that a million times?" He glanced out across the street, faintly amused. "I think I was so busy trying to make him SuperCop that I chose to believe I could overcome his abnormally high levels of stubbornness. Then after Maddie left, I was even more determined to mold him, but by then he was a teenager and it was like pushing water." He looked back at Carlton. "He _is_ smart. You know that. He can take care of himself."

"He can get other people to take care of him too," Carlton said testily. "I know he's a clever little SOB. But he's no kid anymore."

"Right. He's fully responsible for his actions. I didn't only teach him to be a cop, you know. I also taught him about being a man. About having respect and using common sense."

Carlton scratched his stubbly jaw. "Be nice if he could use a little of that common sense where O'Hara's job is concerned."

Henry's perceptive gaze narrowed. "And have you done anything about that… _situation_?"

_Crap._

"What situation?"

"Don't play dumb, Lassiter. We've been through this battle of wills before and if you recall, I _never_ lose." Henry smirked. It made Carlton want to toss beer at him. While still in the glass.

"Henry," he said impatiently, "as cocky as you are, let me remind you that you're advising me to make a move on a woman who's not merely in a relationship with someone else, but specifically your own son, and incidentally, she's probably not even speaking to me."

"Oh, she's speaking to you," Henry said with another smirk. "Just not while you're in the room."

"Well, I don't want to hear _that_." Gave him the willies thinking about it.

"You might. What a woman says when she's muttering about a man is the key to solving the problem."

He set his glass down hard, splashing a little beer on the table. "The problem is me. Takes more than muttering to solve _me_. And for the last time, she's not available, she wouldn't want me even if she was, and shut the hell up already."

Henry only laughed. "Okay. For now. But come Saturday at the Expo, I dunno…"

Carlton rolled his eyes. He had only himself to blame: both Spencers drove him nuts, and he'd _agreed_ to meet with this one.

"Eat your damned sandwich."

"Eat yours," Henry retorted, "and yell at me later."

Somehow, he was sure he'd have to.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Trout mostly left her alone on Wednesday. He acted like a man sated after a big meal, strolling the bullpen giving 'meaningful' looks to whomever made eye contact.

Most cops tried not to make eye contact at all.

Juliet held her head high. Her frozen shell was in place, and for Wednesday at least, Trout stayed clear of the iceberg around her desk. She knew it was temporary. He had no fear of her. He was merely letting her wonder how much time remained before he moved in for the kill.

She and Dobson ran the records for Bobby Howard. He was twenty-four, and as Silvers said, he'd been arrested previously for possession, mugging and burglary. Prior to his arrests and incarcerations, he'd had a gun registered to his name—a .22. She put Dobson and Silvers on the task of bringing him in, but by mid-afternoon, the gentleman was still playing hard to get.

Also playing hard to get: becoming used to this as _her_ desk instead of Carlton's. Her chair. Her blotter.

It was the damnedest thing, feeling him all around her. Sometimes when she turned in the chair she thought she could still smell his aftershave, or simply his unique Carlton scent, a scent she knew by heart.

_And missed._

In the drawer there were pens and pencils which he'd held with his long-fingered hands, writing rapidly or angrily or carelessly. The desk phone, he'd punched numbers into savagely or absent-mindedly.

This was Carlton's space.

Working its way through the controlled chaos of the bullpen, the littlest voice of all whispered to her.

_He is with you._

It sank in, and made goosebumps rise on her skin.

But the actively-wounded voice snapped back that he shouldn't have left her. Dammit, and damn him.

She shook herself free of the internal argument at least briefly: dwelling on the past was a complete waste of time. Dwelling on the sensation of Carlton encompassing her… no.

A flash of an image of him holding her tightly at dawn on the clock tower. A flash of a memory of being totally enclosed in his warmth and protective embrace.

Juliet let a shuddering sigh escape.

_Work, stupid. Or you really _are_ stupid._

Work. Yes. The shooting from three months ago wormed its way to the forefront of her brain, and she looked into that case again.

James "Puff" Carroll, fisherman, was killed ten blocks from Willow Floral. The shot was heard shortly after two a.m., and he was found in a blind alley minus the contents of his wallet. No forensics, no signs of a struggle, shot at close range.

Employees at the nearest tavern—not surprisingly, Ringo's—confirmed he'd been in that evening, flashing money in which no one showed any particular interest. There was some speculation that they were ill-gotten gains, but no one knew him well enough to speculate beyond that. They said he was an okay guy who got a bit testy when service was slow.

The busboy friend of Bobby Howard's had been working there nearly a year. She made a call to Ringo's to confirm that Howard had been hanging around annoying customers and staff for at least that long.

It was almost too easy. Bobby Howard, at one time the owner of a .22, a man known to be volatile and pushy while hanging around Ringo's, plus two late-night murders of men who should have had money in their wallets and didn't.

With his unsavory connections, she didn't doubt he'd acquired another .22, legal registration be damned. She looked at his mug shots: lank hair, black-as-coal eyes, scowl, air of "Yeah, baby, I'm meaner than you" … he was as viable a suspect as they came.

All they had to do now was find the bastard.

Shawn called her late in the afternoon. "How's it going?"

"Meh."

He'd given her space last night, but had tried to wake her with amorous intentions this morning, and was surprised and disappointed when she didn't share his interest.

"When are you coming home?"

"I don't know. What did you and Gus do today?" It was rhetorical to include Gus' name.

"He worked his route for awhile to keep his boss happy and then we took in a movie. We saw—"

She interrupted, because she didn't care; it was either something they'd seen ten times already or it was something he'd promised to see first with her. "Did you buy groceries today?"

He paused. "Yes."

"You paused."

"I was thinking about the word 'grocer.' It's a funny word, 'grocer.'"

"What did you buy?"

"Groceries," he said firmly. "So when are you coming home?"

"Are you asking because you want to know if you have enough time to track Gus down, wheedle money out of him, go to the store, get back and put everything away before I get there?"

"Silly Jules," he said fondly. "Gus is right here."

_Silly Jules indeed. _

"I don't know when I'm coming home. We're still trying to track down Bobby Howard."

"Let me help. I can—"

"No. Put me on speaker so Gus can hear."

"Okay… go ahead."

"Gus? You there?"

"Hi, Juliet!"

"Translate this for Shawn. If you come near this case, I'll cut your head off."

There was silence from the other end.

Finally Gus asked cautiously, "My head or his head?"

"Yes," she said, and disconnected.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The sun had long set, the night was quiet, and Carlton sat out on his patio watching the stars twinkling high above.

Damn Henry and his meddling.

He texted Juliet. No doubt she was curled up on the sofa humoring Spencer with another viewing of _Pretty In Pink_. She'd be annoyed to hear from him, and Spencer would toss off bits of mockery without even taking his eyes from the screen.

_Any break in the Garcia case? Or Trout's head?_

The phone was silent for several minutes. She wasn't going to respond. Or she had, by flushing her phone down the toilet.

At last a beep: _Finally have a suspect. And my first write-up._

Crap to that.

_Did you hit him?_

_No chance: Shawn threatened to. Told you Trout would use him against me._

_I'm sorry it came to that._

_Me too._

_How are you?_

_Comfortable and full._

He frowned. Unexpected answer.

While he was thinking about how to respond, his cell rang.

"I'm at a hotel," she said without preamble. "Just had some really good room service. Grilled fish, roast potatoes, a crisp green salad and a slice of pecan pie."

"Why are you at a hotel?" Maybe it was a stakeout, but that was much better dining than they usually got.

"Because I didn't want to stay at home."

Carlton considered numerous possibilities.

She elucidated, "Long story short. Shawn promised to buy groceries but it's been over a week and there's nothing left. He even ate the expired jar of pimientos. Today he said he did finally buy some food, but when I got home all I found were Twizzlers, a case of Red Bull, five pounds of bacon, some Tostados and a jar of crunchy peanut butter."

He let this wash over him. "How many Twizzlers were you able to shove in his ears before you left?"

Juliet laughed—_thank God, she laughed_—and said, "Fortunately for him, he was in the other room with Gus. I called him after I got here, but didn't say where I was. I think I'll have room service for breakfast too. I heard this place has great omelets."

He wanted to ask her which hotel, but then again, she wasn't likely to invite _him_ over. "An expensive way to make your point."

"I know. But it's been a hell of a week, Carlton. I need some pampering. I'm checking out the Jacuzzi later."

The instantaneous image of her nude and delectable body sliding into the warm water was not one he needed to have right this minute. No.

_No._

He cleared his throat discreetly. "Why did Spencer threaten Trout?"

"Trout warned them off because of more property damage, Shawn called him an ass, Trout fired him, Shawn said he'd smack him with a trout, and now I have a big black mark in my file."

Ire replaced desire. "You should challenge it."

"I should, but I won't. Not this one." She yawned. "Let him have his win. I'll find another way. I do know that how I conduct myself now will go a long way toward easing my future, whether it's at SBPD or someplace else."

It hurt to think of her away from Santa Barbara. "You're too good a cop for Trout to win anything off of you."

"So are you, Carlton. But _you're_ gone." It wasn't… quite… an accusation.

"It's not the same," he insisted, knowing he was right about this. "_I'm_ not the same. You're on the rise in your career. I'm just paying the price for a lifetime of pissing people off."

"Nobody asked you to pay that price," she shot back. "Maybe politics would have kept you from making Chief but nobody ever wanted you out of the department. _Nobody_."

He could argue—and he'd be right about that too—but he didn't want to fight with her. He didn't want to add to the madness she surely felt these days. He'd already caused her enough pain.

"Okay," he said quietly.

This caused her to sigh. "Carlton. This is all such a mess."

"I know. I'm sorry you're in hell right now."

"So am I."

"You're strong. You can outsmart Trout."

"Yeah." She didn't sound convinced.

"But save some Twizzlers to shove up his nose."

God, he loved her laughter. And he loved that this was the first conversation they'd had in a long time which ended without her wanting to pistol-whip him.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet dreamed of unexpected things that night.

She did try out the hot tub, soaking in the warmth while her conversation with Carlton replayed in her head.

Shawn, she didn't think about.

She thought of Carlton's voice in her ear, especially when he made her laugh, or didn't argue when he could have.

It was a touch of the blessedly familiar in an increasingly unfamiliar world.

In the morning, over the promised-to-herself-and-so-worth it omelet, she explained the dream to herself as being the end result of a subconscious need to re-acquire the familiar… the solid ground of what she knew… the anchor of her professional life.

But in the night, when she woke in a rush of desire from a very explicit dream of having sex with her lean, naked partner in that hot tub, nothing made sense at all, especially how desperately she wanted it to be true.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	10. Chapter 10: Confrontations

**CHAPTER TEN: Confrontations**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Silvers caught up with Bobby Howard on Thursday afternoon, just as Trout's circling of the bullpen was bringing him closer and closer to Juliet's iceberg.

It bought her some time—time to figure out what he might have up his trouty sleeves.

Throwing himself back in a chair in Interrogation, Bobby gave off the attitude she expected, one suggesting he was a bad-ass the likes of which had never bad-assed its way across Santa Barbara, and everyone should watch out.

She sat across from him, Dobson leaning against the wall.

For a moment, she flashed back to Carlton doing the same during interviews, his long lanky frame belying the speed and strength with which he could stop the forward motion of any suspect who intended to flee. All quiet control...

Then another flashback to the dream, where that quiet control had given way to animal passion…

"Mr. Howard," she said pleasantly. "Do you own a gun?"

"Hell no. I'm a felon." His smile was insolent.

Hers was cool. "Then the gun Officer Silvers found on you—where did that come from?"

He shrugged. "He planted it."

"Ah. And why would he do that?"

"It's what y'all do, I heard."

_Y'all._ Juliet didn't hear that much around these parts. Bobby's jacket said he was from Shreveport, Louisiana, with notes indicating he'd been sent to live with an aunt in Santa Barbara when he was seventeen and close to landing in jail back home.

Seemed like he might have been better off in Louisiana, given how much of the seven years since then that he'd spent in jail.

"No, I'm really curious," she said. "Why would he plant a gun on you?"

Bobby shrugged again. "Y'all got quotas. I'm it. Don't play like it ain't true."

"Hmm. Okay, you're right." She looked over at Dobson. "Dobson, sorry, but I'm low on arrests this month. You mind if I toss you in holding for a few hours to get my numbers up?"

Dobson's shrug matched Bobby's. "Sure. Payback next month for my quota?"

"Deal."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Yeah, whatever. Why am I sittin' here?"

Juliet opened the folder. "Did you know Paco Garcia?"

"Maybe. Lotta Mexicans around."

"You would have met him at Ringo's."

"Never heard of it."

She sighed. "Dobson, why do they always lie about stuff like this?"

"They think we're idiots," he suggested.

Leaning forward to glare at Bobby, she snapped, "You've spent the better part of the last year at Ringo's hanging out with your busboy buddy and harassing the customers and staff."

He sat back. "Hell I harassed anybody."

"Lots of people there say so, Bobby."

"They don't know nothin'."

"So you'd deny to dozens of witnesses that you were ever in Ringo's?"

"Didn't say I was never in Ringo's."

"A minute ago you said you never heard of it."

Sly grin. "I mighta been mistaken. But I don't harass anybody, darlin'."

"Witnesses," she repeated.

"Come on. Don't you think a smart Southern boy like me knows not to leave witnesses?"

For a second—maybe two—she felt a little chill. _This was the guy_.

She tapped the folder. "Paco Garcia."

He shook his head, obviously thinking yet again that he was smarter than anybody else. "Nope."

"James Carroll. Also known as Puff?"

His expression flickered. He hadn't been expecting that one. "No."

Juliet smiled. "Yes. Both men killed with a .22 near Ringo's, late at night. Both robbed."

"Nothin' to do with me, and I don't own a gun," he repeated.

"You were carrying one today."

"Planted."

"Why did you kill them?"

"Kill who?"

Waste of time. She pushed her chair back. "All right. You want a lawyer?"

"Do I need one, darlin'?"

"Probably so, _sugah_," she drawled, "because Ballistics is fixin' to tell us whether the bullet which killed Garcia came from the gun Silvers found on you."

He didn't like it. It was in his eyes, mixed up with the insolence, but all he did was shrug again. "If you say so. But even if it did, all it means is y'all are settin' me up with that planted gun."

She laughed. "To meet our quota?"

"Guess so. Folks have been persecutin' me since the day I was born."

"Funny, I heard it the other way around. More like _you've_ been doing the persecuting."

Bobby smiled broadly. "I dunno how these rumors get started."

She tapped the folder again. "Probably because of how much time you've spent in jail."

Dobson asked casually, "How much money did you get off Puff Carroll the night you killed him?"

Bobby's head jerked around so fast his lank hair slapped him in the face. "What the hell you talkin' about? I didn't kill Puff Carroll."

"What kind of name is Puff anyway?"

"Sissy-ass. Thought he was Puff Daddy, I guess." He turned to glare at Juliet. "And just cause I'm speculatin' about a nickname don't mean I know the guy."

She was sweet. "We didn't ask you if you _knew_ him. We asked you if you killed him."

Oh, Bobby Howard hated her right now.

"Y'all can go to hell. Get me a lawyer on the way."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"So where are we exactly?" Trout pressed. "Waiting for the guy to spontaneously confess?"

"Ballistics is running the tests now. Dobson is bringing in the busboy to quiz him about having seen Howard with a gun. Silvers is canvassing the area again with a photo of Howard to see who else he's harassed. If the bullet came from that gun, it won't matter how hard his lawyer pushes the bogus claim of entrapment."

He rocked on his heels, surveying her with that familiar dismissive expression, his pale blue eyes devoid of any… soul, honestly.

"And?"

Juliet bit back the urge to punch him. "We've also confirmed with Puff Carroll's employer that he got a five hundred dollar tip for his work on a fishing excursion, and was out celebrating the night he was killed."

"But Garcia had less than a hundred."

"Howard doesn't look to be picky. And frankly, he seems like someone who'd kill because he could."

_Sort of the way you look_, she thought, and wasn't even much surprised by it.

Not that he would, of course. No, he'd be the kind to hire it out—or better yet, blackmail someone into committing murder _for_ him. He'd never get blood on his own hands.

_You are really much too involved in how much you don't like your boss, girl._

Trout had moved on anyway, rattling on about stats and assignments and what he expected her to have accomplished within the next week. "Wrap this Garcia case up, O'Hara. If you can fold Carroll into it, bonus power bars for you. Just get it done."

Juliet nodded, but as she started to leave, he said the words she hated most.

"One more thing."

Turning around again, she waited.

Trout smiled. The shark smile.

"You know I'll be bringing the psychos back for round two, right?"

Silently, she explained to Trout how much she despised him. She used plain and simple vocabulary, richly detailed and descriptive, because if by some chance he could read minds, she didn't want him to miss a single nuance.

Outwardly, she said, "As you see fit. Anything else?"

"Not for now."

Not for now.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The first email read: _The Santa Paula Police Department would be pleased to speak with you about openings in our detective squad. Chief Alex Mancuso will contact you personally on Friday._

The second one was from Chief Mancuso himself, time-stamped five minutes later. _I'll call on Friday but wanted to touch base now. Glad you're interested in working with us. Your record stands out in California law enforcement._

The third email was from the Ventura Police Department, Chief Ray Kiser presiding. _Give me a call at your earliest convenience. Very interested in having an officer of your caliber on our team_.

Carlton was surprised. Pleased. Startled. He knew he was damned good at his job, but he also knew he had a reputation for his crankiness as well as his police work. To have his first two signal flares met with positive reactions was more than he expected.

_Trout'll spit up._

Bonus.

He shut down the laptop, and with that motion he began to wonder how much of an effort Trout would make to interfere with his getting a job outside the county. It would be purely out of spite if he took an active role.

But he wouldn't have to take an active role. After all, Carlton could hardly conceal from prospective employers that he'd been demoted two months ago. Questions would be asked, and they weren't questions he could evade. It wouldn't be enough to use 'politics' as an answer, even if it was largely true.

_Who are you kidding? The law enforcement network in this part of the state is like a bunch of old gossipy biddies. By now they know all about Trout, and Spencer's involvement in SBPD cases was certainly known to them before that—along with Spencer's tendency to play it like he'd done all the work and the SBPD was just a little clubhouse he used for fun_.

But then it occurred to him…

_They want to talk to you anyway._

Trout, demotion, and all the times he himself had been shown up by Spencer-crap … and they wanted to talk to him _anyway_.

Huh. He poured another cup of coffee, feeling a smile coming along.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

She hadn't been home and she hadn't responded to Shawn's texts, and since his ban from the station was still in effect, he couldn't storm the Bastille to get to her.

So when she did park the Bug in the driveway as the sun was about to set, she was hardly shocked to find Shawn waiting for her at the front door, pacing back and forth on the step.

What shocked her was how much she didn't want to talk to him at all.

_This is your boyfriend. Your relationship has been tested already in a huge way. You came back from that. Groceries cannot be the villain here; it's too ridiculous._

(Did_ you come back from that test, really?)_

She walked slowly to meet him, and he held the door open and then followed her up the stairs into the living room.

"You left last night without a word, and you wouldn't talk to me today."

Sinking into the overstuffed chair she loved, feeling impossibly bone-weary, she put her feet up on the coffee table and looked at him.

"I called you from the hotel."

"You left a message. It's not the same."

He was uneasy. Restless in a way which reminded her of how volatile—almost unstable—he'd been in the wake of Henry's shooting.

"Jules. That's serious."

"There wasn't a lot I could say about Twizzlers."

He sat down, then got up again, then sat down again. "Sweetie. I'm sorry. I didn't have much cash so I looked for bargains."

"Sale on Red Bull?"

"It's an energy drink! We both need that. And bacon and peanut butter are for protein and Twizzlers are for strengthening jaw muscles and the Tostados are for crunch, because a day without crunch is—"

"Shawn, stop it." She rubbed her face, wondering why she felt twice her age these days.

"Look, I got a job today. I mean, I lined up two clients to meet tomorrow. I want to take you out to dinner for date night."

Juliet eyed him. "Date night?"

"Tomorrow night. You, me, Mikayla's. We'll have a bottle of wine, a good appetizer, a great meal and maybe even some quiet conversation."

"You don't really do quiet conversation," she pointed out gently.

"Don't say no, Jules. I want to do this right."

"But Shawn." So tired. So incredibly tired. "On Saturday morning I want to get up, have coffee, maybe some milk and cereal. Or toast. Eggs. I want to open the fridge or the cabinets and find food so we can have a nice lunch later. Or even a mediocre lunch. You see?"

"I see." He picked up a pillow to hug tight against himself.

"This has to be about more than you not having money. You always have access to money because you can always find work. I don't understand why buying groceries, to do your share, is such an impossible task."

He flung the pillow aside. "Look. Just… look. You've been mad at me a long time, Jules. Ever since Trout. Maybe before." His hazel gaze flickered a moment; she knew he did not want to say out loud _since you found out I was a fake_. "And I know this is a big deal to you, the groceries. It's like a bigger deal than almost anything else right now. You stayed in a hotel last night and shut me out today. That's… I don't like it. It scares me. You know?"

"It scares me too," she admitted. "But I wasn't trying to scare you. I just needed to have some peace and comfort and… and some kind of relief from what's been going on all summer. You've had so many jobs, I don't think you really understand what it's like for me to know I'm about to lose mine. I love my job, Shawn. I need it. I don't mean to pay bills. I mean I need it because being a cop is who I am and what I love to do more than anything else."

The lights were low and behind him through the windows the last of the sun was going. It was quiet now, and quiet in her head, if not her heart.

Shawn said softly, "But what if I buy groceries—I mean, everything you say you want, down to the last jar of marmalade—and you're still mad at me?"

_Oh, Shawn._

For several moments she marveled at seeing him seriously, truly… _contemplate_… their relationship.

"I lost you once already," he whispered. "I can't risk losing you again."

Damn him; he could still get to her, make her heart ache.

But if he was really invested in this conversation, now was the time to make it count.

"You have taken more risks—more needless risks—in the last seven years than anyone else I know. You've risked your life, Gus'—mine and Carlton's too—in the course of solving crimes."

He frowned. "If they solved crime, they weren't needless risks."

"No, I mean… well, I mean like _this_, Shawn. You're risking our relationship over groceries because you think buying them won't solve the bigger problems, and since you don't want to face any bigger problems, you keep us stuck on this one. That's a _needless_ risk, because it keeps me angry and frustrated about something really stupid at a time in my life when I'm already damned close to the end of my rope."

She stood up, retrieving the pillow he'd flung aside earlier and putting it back on the sofa.

"Everything is so hard at the station right now. I have a boss who hates me, I have a ton of new responsibilities, and I don't have Carlton at my side. If I could come home to… to something _normal_. Comforting. Loving. Something to take the pressure off, even a _little_—Shawn, that would be so nice. It would help so much. Don't you get that?"

_I'm asking you to put me first. Just once. Just... please._

Shawn sighed. "I get it. Okay, Jules. Tomorrow I'll work my new cases, and then I'll take you out for date night. I'll buy a houseful of groceries on Saturday morning before you even wake up, and we'll be all right." He rose and came to plant a kiss on her forehead. "You'll see, sweetie."

She let him hug her, declined an offer of bacon Tostada cheeseless nachos with a glass of Red Bull on ice, and went to bed later wondering what in the hell she'd thought her life would be like with Shawn Spencer.

And once she fell asleep, she dreamed again of making love with Carlton.

**. . . .**

**. . . **

Chief Mancuso cleared his throat. "So, Detective Lassiter, I heard a little about some upsets over at the SBPD."

_Don't deny. The biddies always know better._

"You heard right. I decided it was time to move on, but I still have a lot of years of law enforcement left in me."

"I'd wager you do. Impressive arrest record. Santa Barbara's loss."

_Damn straight_.

He knew better than to say it out loud. This was only a preliminary phone call and how he acted would very likely determine whether he got a real interview out of it.

"Thank you. I've been reading up on Santa Paula's crime stats. You've got crime on the decline, so your guys must be pretty good."

"I like to think so. Can I get you over here for an interview next week?"

"Yes, sir." _That was easy_.

"Great. I've got a chiefs' conference Monday through Wednesday but I'll be back in the office on Thursday, and there's an eleven a.m. slot open for you if you can make it over."

"Not a problem at all."

Not one bit of it.

When he spoke to Chief Kiser in Ventura later, it was much the same. Kiser was attending the same police chiefs' conference in Pasadena, so their formal interview was set up for Friday morning.

Trout would be at the conference, of course. Carlton knew it. The man would not miss a chance to flaunt his 'successes' at SBPD; nor would he miss a chance to take shots at Carlton in absentia. Kiser and Mancuso, professional _investigators_, beyond being part of the natural biddy network, would make it their business to have a word with him to suss out his side of the story. Carlton would do the same in their place.

He was prepared for one or both of those interviews to be cancelled. Even if they deduced for themselves that Trout was a nutjob, the man had influence, and hiring Carlton might generate bad P.R. for their departments.

Well, screw it anyway. He had to start somewhere. If nothing else, he could still sell the condo, get an apartment, ride out a few months of inactivity until Trout had moved on to harvest some other hapless community, and then start over again.

_Yippee._

"Don't be so negative."

He looked around the condo, but Juliet's voice had been only in his head.

She'd said it to him a hundred times over the years, usually followed by some sort of reminder that no matter what anyone else thought, she knew he was the best and she'd always be at his side.

Fanciful talk, given who he was… and given that he'd pushed her away with a truth he wished he'd never spoken aloud.

He wished he could call her up and tell her about the interviews, but he was pretty sure she wouldn't want to hear it right now. Or maybe ever.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"He'll admit to carrying the gun, but nothing else."

The public defender was bored. He'd had too many clients like Bobby Howard. He'd uphold the law but he wouldn't exactly be making inspirational speeches about his client.

Juliet looked at Bobby, whose perpetual sneer was at half-mast.

"Mr. Kirkland, you know he committed those murders."

"I know no such thing." He closed his briefcase. "He'll do the time for the gun, no contest."

"And when he gets out, he'll get another gun, and he'll kill someone else."

"I never killed anybody," Bobby insisted.

"Yeah, and I never had gas," Dobson remarked from his position at the wall. "Anybody in here believe that?"

Kirkland ignored them both. "If he killed anyone, Detective O'Hara, you'll have to _prove_ it. That's how the court system works."

"I had no idea," she said sweetly. "Good thing we found six neighborhood residents to pick him out of a photo lineup."

He frowned. "For what?"

"Vandalism, threatening behavior, attempted muggings. We also tracked down some Ringo's customers who were in the bar the night Puff Carroll was murdered who'll swear in court that Bobby was hanging around near closing time and taking a special interest in Puff and his big fat wallet."

Bobby stopped grinning, but Kirkland laughed. "And where was all this in-depth police work when you were investigating _his_ death?"

Truthfully, she'd wondered that herself. It hadn't been her case; Carlton had assigned it to Rel Dillard, who retired shortly afterward.

He pressed on, "Seems like if Mr. Howard was such a viable suspect then, we wouldn't be talking about Paco Garcia now."

"We're willing to talk about whoever we have to talk about to get Bobby here off the streets," Dobson said coolly.

Kirkland smiled. "Then you can count on talking about incompetence in the Carroll case when we do make it to court."

"You sure you want to take shots at us in the name of protecting your client, if it means admitting we should have caught him earlier?"

Not so smug anymore, Mr. Kirkland. He scowled. "The gun charge is all you have. Make the most of it."

Seemed to be a standoff.

Juliet smiled.

"We already have, Mr. Kirkland." She pushed a copy of the ballistics report across the table. "Bobby's gun killed Garcia."

It wasn't accurate to say Bobby's response was "Sheeeee-it," she thought later, because there were way more syllables than just the two.

Kirkland's response was wrapped up in lawyerese, but the essence of it was the same.

Oh, how she loved her job.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"How did Trout take it?" Shawn asked.

Juliet grinned. "Icing on the cake. He really really wanted me to fail, and he had this huge internal battle going on as to whether he should congratulate me or stomp his feet in petulant rage. Finally he just muttered something about how it shouldn't have taken so long, and I should get back to work."

"What about the gun-running thing out of Willow Floral?"

"Honestly? I doubt there ever was one."

The appetizer of Italian nachos had been vanquished, and she sipped her wine while the waiter set before them Shawn's steak with potatoes and her grilled chicken marsala.

Shawn had crowed moderately about working two cases that day, one office embezzlement ("duh, it was the girl over by the copier") and one missing iPad ("being hired by teenagers again is like a new personal low for me"), and although he had to use part of the office manager's check to pay for replacing their water cooler, he did have seventy dollars on hand, in cash, devoted entirely to their dinner—and he showed it to her, counting it out lovingly.

She wasn't sure how any of that was going to pay for groceries in the morning, but he told her not to worry; he had A Plan.

Dinner almost hadn't happened at all. When she got home to change for their date, she found a half-full ashtray on the coffee table and some empty soda cans on the floor by the sofa. He'd explained that the teenagers had come over to talk about the missing iPad.

There were a few moments—distressingly familiar these days—when she couldn't speak. "You brought clients to our house?"

"Well. Uh. Yeah?" He was alarmed that she was angry.

"You have an office. A business office. This is our _home_. Where we _live_. We don't bring clients or criminals here. It's our… our _space_, Shawn."

"Well. I… I mean the office was kind of far for them and I…"

She stared at him in complete consternation. "Shawn. This is unacceptable."

"Hey! A few months ago, you, like, kickboxed a guy into submission right here in the living room!" he protested.

"Well, it's not like I invited him over!" she yelled.

"Okay!" He put his hands up. "Okay! You're right. I shouldn't have done it. I was just taking a shortcut and I didn't think it through. Lesson learned, I swear. I'll never do it again. Please, let's just start over from here. Dinner, Jules. Come on. We both deserve a break from… from ourselves."

Somehow she'd put aside the helpless rage—again—and gotten herself together for dinner. A long shower helped, as did being able to put on a nice dress and pretty jewelry and a layer of hope for the best, or at least the best for the next few hours.

Shawn looked nice; he'd shaved and was wearing a fairly unwrinkled tie and his best black jeans.

Let it all just go, she thought, sipping a little more wine. _You've been friends a long time and this is the relationship you _chose_—that you both fought for_.

_That you nearly lost Carlton over._

Deep breath. _Just… let tonight be_.

She smiled. They could make this work. She would enjoy a good meal with the charming, amusing Shawn she remembered from years ago: the one who was actually trying to woo her.

Gus sat down in the chair between them. "Shawn. Why haven't you answered my texts?"

Shawn was as surprised as she was. "Dude. Seriously? I'm on _Date_ Night."

"Shawn, this is important! We don't have much time!"

"Gus, just go buy the thing and I'll pay you back."

Juliet set her fork down. "What's this about?"

Gus spared her a glance. "Hey, Juliet. You look great. I'll just be a minute." To Shawn, he said insistently, "You won't pay me back, and if you don't pay me back, then the lifesize cardboard cutout of John Stamos will be 100% mine, and you won't even be allowed to look at it."

"I'll pay you back! I took two cases today while you were doing that other thing."

"My pharmaceutical job? The one which pays most of your bills? That thing?"

"I've heard it both ways. Look, Gus, my girlfriend here has a gun and she will shoot you if you don't stop screwing up our Date Night."

"It's true," she agreed mildly, although she would also shoot Shawn if it came to that.

"I will leave as soon as you pay up. There's only one left at Eighties-R-Us and tomorrow they're changing out the display."

"Really? What it's going to be?"

"Ricky Schroeder, I think. Never mind. Your half is fifty bucks, Shawn, and I need it now if you're going in on Stamos with me."

"I will pay you back," Shawn insisted. "Just go."

Juliet polished off her wine. The waiter appeared to refill her glass, and she got half of that down in the next few seconds.

Gus huffed. "You won't pay me back, and you know it. Looks like Stamos comes to live in Gusterville." He started to get up.

"Wait!" Shawn clutched at his arm and forced him to sit again. "Fine." He opened his wallet and fished out fifty dollars. "There, dammit. Now get the hell out of here before you ruin Date Night completely."

Gus grinned and pocketed the money, made a quick apology to Juliet, and took off running.

Shawn let out a deep breath, giving her a cautious smile. "Sorry about that."

Funny how ice could form so quickly, wasn't it? She'd heard about black ice. Ice you couldn't see, forming on apparently dry surfaces in the dead of a cold night—in the darkness of a cold heart—and lurking… waiting…

"Shawn," she began casually.

"Sweetie?"

"How are you going to pay for dinner?"

He blanched.

She waited for her rage… but it wasn't there. There was only ice.

"Oh my God, I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking. Jules, look, I'm sorry. I'll call him back. I'll—what are you doing?"

She was getting up. She was getting her handbag.

"Jules, wait—"

She was saying goodnight.

She was walking out.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	11. Chapter 11: Confrontations Redux

**CHAPTER ELEVEN: Confrontations Redux**

**. . . .  
. . . **

_(minor spoilers for S7 "Juliet Wears the Pantsuit")_

**. . . .  
. . .**

She slept in the guest bedroom, door locked. Rather, she lay wide awake thinking all night. Sleep stayed persistently out of reach.

Shawn came home about midnight. He knocked on her door. She told him to go away until morning.

He tried to jimmy the lock.

Actually, he did jimmy the lock—_because why start respecting boundaries now?_—but she'd hooked a chair under the doorknob and once he realized it—and heard her say again to go away until morning—he left her alone.

In the light of day, she got up and walked through a silent house. He was gone, a note on the fridge saying he'd be back later with food.

He'd texted _I'm sorry_. He didn't say how he got out of the restaurant with only twenty dollars to cover their meals, appetizer and wine. She assumed he'd convinced Gus to come back with the fifty dollars, because Gus had texted too, saying _Sorry I messed up your date night_—as if any of it, at heart, was really his fault.

She imagined Shawn was angry with her, or had been last night, but she didn't care.

She fried bacon and ate tostadas and drank coffee and went for a short run, and on the way back she cried, because nothing about her life was as it should be, nothing, not one damned thing, and it all started going wrong the day Carlton told her off.

_More_ wrong. It was already wrong.

The house was still empty, no one to hear her sniffling and blowing her nose as she showered and changed and threw herself onto the sofa.

_Stop thinking about this. Stop it._

Finding the remote, she went round the TV dial for a bit, finding nothing worth her attention for a gray Saturday morning, and finally she turned on the DVD player to see what was queued up to play.

If it was a John Hughes movie, she would shoot the machine. So much as one second of Anthony Michael Hall in her face and she'd toss it out the window while still shooting, until the weapon was empty and so was she.

But it was something else.

"Dammit," she muttered, realizing it was one of Shawn's umpteen copies of the movie he'd put together from Kate and Chavo's Bigfoot-hunt-turned-Serbian-shootout footage.

There she was with Carlton, coming up the muddy forest path, both aggravated.

Damn, he looked good. Annoyed and snarky and gorgeous, and where in the hell had that come from? She didn't think of him in those terms. He was her partner. No lookie, no touchie.

_Hot tub sex dream, girl. Naked passionate Carlton, blue eyes heated with desire._

_Oh yeah_… she pushed that memory away.

Sitting up cross-legged, she kept watching.

And watching.

And there, just as he'd said, right in plain view, were all the ways he mattered to her. She showed it to _everyone_ that day in the woods.

She remembered how it felt to be terrified he was lost forever, and completely determined to prove them all wrong, because he could _not_ be lost; he was her partner and her best friend and he _could not be lost to her_, not then and not _ever_.

"How could you doubt me?" she whispered, the tears returning.

How _could_ he doubt what he meant to her? How could he say he didn't like her when she'd showed everyone how she felt?

_But how do you feel? How do you feel _now_?_

She swallowed her tears.

How did she feel?

She felt… pissed off.

Furious, in fact.

She stood up, wanting to throw something. Wanting to break something. Everything.

Him.

She punched 'eject' on the machine and found her keys.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Henry was coming by about ten to drop off some more of his catch from the Lake Cachuma trip, and after that they were going to the fishing expo. Carlton was looking forward to the distraction, if not to Henry's prying.

He stepped into the hall to take his trash downstairs—and Juliet was headed right at him.

She had car keys in one hand and a DVD in the other. Her hair was wind-tossed and her cheeks were flushed and she was righteously torked off, dark blue eyes glittering with anger he hadn't seen from her in a long time.

"Get in there," she commanded, and Carlton backed up into his condo. He dropped the trash bag as she just about slammed the door behind them both.

"What's wrong?"

"What's wrong? _You're_ wrong." She approached him, and when he tried to step back, she grabbed at his wrist and slapped the DVD into his open hand. "That's wrong."

"What is it?"

"What is it? It's that stupid Kate Favor movie. The one that shows the world I'm your friend, you bastard."

He was stung, apart from being confused. "I never said you weren't—"

Juliet flung her keys across the room, whirling back to face him while they bounced off the far wall and clattered to the floor. "You said I only wanted you back so Shawn could pay some bills. You said you couldn't respect me because of how I let him treat me. You said I was no better than Gus. And you left me, Carlton. You gave up and you let Trout win and you left me, you sorry cowardly son of a bitch, and that pisses me off so damned much."

She was breathing hard, and she hated him, and Carlton felt the energy of her emotion crackling through the room.

"I didn't mean to abandon you," he started.

"Well, you did! You did and it all went to hell!"

"That's not fair," he snapped. "Trout ripped us apart over two months ago and things happened the way they happened." He took a step closer to the fury, and she held her ground. "You _know_ I—"

"I don't know anything!" she yelled. "I don't know anything except I could punch you in the gut right now, Carlton, and I'm not sure I could stop once I start!" To punctuate the point, she savagely knocked the DVD out of his hand, and it too clattered to the floor.

He knew she was going to hit him next, and caught her fist before it made contact. "Juliet, stop—don't _do_ this."

"Why not!" she cried—and she _was_ crying. "I can't yell at Trout and yelling at Shawn is like pushing water but you're here and you're the reason it's all gone to hell so why can't I just let it out?"

She tried to hit him with her other hand but he grabbed both her wrists and pushed her back, back toward the door. They hit the wall hard, and he held her firm despite her struggles.

But as the tears dampened her beautiful, flushed face, he knew the truth.

And the truth was, if hitting him would make her feel better, he might as well let it happen. He owed her that much.

He let go of her wrists and stood before her, ready for anything. Whatever she wanted.

"Okay," he said huskily. "Let it out."

"Oh Carlton," she sobbed. "Dammit, everything sucks without you."

She came at him a third time—but not in violence.

It was a kiss, angry and violent in its own way, but a kiss all the same. She hooked her arms around his neck and pulled his head down and kissed him.

He tasted the salt of her tears and then he had her up against the wall, pressing back against her body, her warm body which was moving restlessly and desperately against his. God she smelled good, shower-fresh, the heat of emotion providing its own intoxicating scent, overwhelming him.

Her mouth was hot and her breathing ragged and she kissed his face and his lips and his jaw and seemed to want more; he drank deep of her sudden need because it had re-awakened the need he'd had for _her_ all these years.

Her hair was soft against his fingers and she tasted so good, so damned good. So perfect. Sweet, hot, angry, hungry… and perfect.

And her body, gloriously yielding and yet insistent against his.

It was the way a kiss should be: head to toe connection, and not even _close_ to being enough.

No more tears now. He kissed them away and there were no more.

Juliet cupped his face, stilling her motions as her breathing gradually steadied. She stroked his face gently while he searched her beautiful eyes for a clue. Even one.

_What in the hell just happened?_

They were still up against the wall, and from the hall, they both heard Henry Spencer whistling in the moments before he rapped on the door.

"Yo, Lassiter!" he bellowed in almost the same second. "Open up! I got a cooler full of fish out here!"

Carlton released his hold on her, and Juliet darted away to retrieve her car keys and finger-comb her hair while he opened the door.

Bright was her tone. "Hey, Henry. How you doing?"

Henry, alert as ever, set the cooler on the floor and then looked between the two of them.

Carlton knew with clarity that only a complete idiot wouldn't pick up on the tension in the room.

"I'm doing great," he finally said cheerfully. "Good to see you, Juliet."

She took a breath. "Sorry I can't stay. Catch you later, okay?"

Henry stepped out into the hall to watch her walk away, and then closed the door, turning only then to take a look at Carlton, who'd allowed himself to sink down into one of the dining room table chairs.

"What in God's name did I just interrupt?"

_Hell if I know_, he thought. _Hell if I know_.

**. . . .**

**. . . **

She couldn't go home feeling like this.

_Like what?_

She drove around town, mind numb.

Senses alive.

On fire.

Shawn texted her. _Back with food, and lots of it. Come home. We'll talk. We'll eat. I'll grovel_.

Grovel? Maybe she should text him back with: _I should do the grovelling. I just practically had my tongue down Carlton's throat._

No. Wouldn't be prudent. She drove more.

Shawn texted again. _Come on, Jules. Gotta deal with this_.

With _him_, he meant. _She_ had to deal with the memory of the unmistakable sensation of Carlton's erection pressed to her lower body while he kissed the hell out of her, because she loved it and she wanted more of it and she was about to ask him to take her to bed when Henry came down the hall.

She drove further, until she had to stop for gas so she could keep circling the city.

_Why didn't you punch him like you went over there to do? He had it coming. He would have let you do it._

_Because I didn't go over there to punch him. I went over there to yell. To throw a fit. To have a real fight with someone I could..._

Juliet pulled over and turned off the engine. She didn't know where she was exactly but there were fields and flowers and cows.

_With someone I could trust._

What she'd shouted at Carlton was exactly right: she couldn't yell at Trout; he would win by default. There was no point in yelling at Shawn, because he was fluffy marshmallow crème. The smiling StayPuft Man of Santa Barbara. Words of anger were lost on him, regurgitated as jokes and evasions and promises to do better.

But Carlton would yell back if she had it coming, and Carlton would at the same time listen to her, puzzling her out, swearing he didn't understand women but taking the time to try to understand her—and he would still be there when she was done. No matter what he thought about _her_ friendship, he was still her friend—her partner in the truest sense—and she knew with every part of her psyche that he would _always_ be her friend.

Trout wouldn't always be her boss. Shawn wouldn't always be her boyfriend. He was barely her boyfriend now; the clock was winding down by the minute.

But Carlton.

Carlton, _dear God could that man kiss Carlton_, he would always be her friend.

And dear God, that man _could_ kiss. Her dream had been not just prophetic, but accurate. The heat and ardency of his mouth devouring hers made her flush with desire even now, two hours later, forty miles from home.

Shawn texted again. _Jules. Come on_.

She texted him back. _Sorry. Been driving and thinking_.

His immediate response: _Come home and think out loud._

"You are so not ready for that," she murmured.

Leaning back against the seat, parked there by the fields and flowers and cows, she replayed one more time those emotional, erotic, incredible moments with Carlton.

Kissing Carlton. Lean, hard, Carlton. All heat, blazing blue eyes, hungry mouth she'd never imagined could set her ablaze like that. The feel of his hair, his beard-roughened cheeks. His breathing, ragged and fast. His breath tantalizing her skin.

_Wanting_ Carlton, more than she could remember wanting any man ever, including the one she lived with.

What he must think of her now?

Shawn texted again—no.

This time it was Carlton.

Her heart skittered as she read the words on her screen.

_I'm sorry I abandoned my partner. It was selfish. Your forgiveness matters but I understand if you can't give it._

The sun came out and brightened the field and flowers—and cows—as she realized with absolute certainty that she could probably give him anything he asked.

_I give it_, she texted back. _All of it_.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

It was the proverbial weight off his chest to read those words.

He texted back _thank you_ and she didn't respond, but the relief lingered.

He had no idea what had really happened back in his condo, or what was going to happen now, but seeing those words on the screen lifted the fog of confusion enough for him to think clearly for the first time in hours.

He'd had to flat-out ditch Henry, who'd been pestering him non-stop. No shame there. Henry would eventually get over being trapped with The Cleavage Lady who was demonstrating several new fishing lures, most of which were pinned to her tight green t-shirt.

Finding an empty bench at the far side of the expo, he'd dug out the phone because he knew he had to make some contact with Juliet. God knew she'd 'made contact' with him, and she hadn't exactly left… happy… and he had to send out some kind of flare.

So he sent the truth. And cliché be damned, the truth had set him free.

But because the truth will also make you miserable, his damned internal monologue (much like Henry), wouldn't shut up.

_You know what happened—the kiss—wasn't about you. _

He knew.

_You know she's been under incredible stress and she needed to lash out at someone who would—not just could, but _would_—take it. _

He knew that too.

_You admitted to loving her. That had to be preying on her mind._

Yeah.

_Emotion… anger… physical proximity…_

"I get it," he muttered.

She was regretting it. She was home confessing to Spencer right now and the little asshat was going to try to run him down with his Norton.

_Bring it, churrohead._

He ran his hands through his hair—instantly remembering _her_ fingers in his hair—and waited to stop wanting her.

Because now he knew, see. He knew what it was like to kiss her and be kissed by her.

So now he could stop wanting her, and move on with his life.

Right?

**. . . .**

**. . .**

John Stamos was in the living room when she got home, leaning against the wall with a smirk on his face and a "Have Mercy" button on his jacket.

Shawn came out of the kitchen wearing an apron. "Hey, Jules." He followed her gaze to the cardboard cutout. "Uh… yeah, Gus said he could stay here for a few days on account of ruining Date Night."

Juliet resisted the urge to kick cardboard Stamos in his cardboard groin. _Let him beg for mercy now_.

"Come see," Shawn said hopefully, gesturing to the kitchen.

There was spaghetti sauce simmering in a pot on the stove, and one by one he opened the cabinets to show her fully-stocked shelves. The fridge was full too, and he listed all the other necessaries he'd acquired, from toilet paper to laundry detergent.

He didn't mention pimientos, but here was a fresh jar of that, too.

"I did it," he said with pride. "I did what I said I would do."

"Yes, you did." How he'd paid for it—or rather, who he'd gotten money from to pay for it—she didn't want to know.

"And I'm making spaghetti."

"I see that."

"Want to taste the sauce?"

Juliet declined, pulling a blissfully cold Coke Zero out of the fridge and pressing it to her warm forehead. "Why would you think I'd want that cutout in our house after last night?"

Shawn stirred the sauce a moment, thinking. "I thought you liked Stamos."

"Not as much as you do," she said quietly. "He sure isn't worth more than a relationship."

He sighed, and set the spoon on the counter. "I wasn't thinking. Gus showed up and got in my face and the opportunity was right there and I wasn't thinking."

"I know."

"Jules, you know how important Date Night was to me."

"I know."

"I screwed up."

"Yeah."

"Dammit," he mumbled. "I knew you'd still be mad. I knew I could fill this whole damn house with food and you'd still be mad."

There it was.

"So… giving the dinner money to Gus in the middle of the date has nothing to do with it?"

He looked sullen.

"Choosing once again to put a spur-of-the-moment whim first over _us_?"

He scoffed. "It wasn't spur-of-the-moment; we've had our eye on Stamos for weeks."

She opened her bottle. "Not really helping, babe."

"How do I get you to stop being mad at me?" he asked plaintively. "You used to like me. I know you love me, but you used to _like_ me."

"I liked you better before we lived together."

Shawn stared at her. "What's that mean? I'm the same guy."

_That_ was the problem. It wasn't only _Carlton_ she thought about on her aimless drive around the city, and it was mostly Shawn she thought about last night while she wasn't sleeping.

"When we were dating," she said carefully, "we had a lot of fun. And whenever it stopped being fun, or when I got tired, I could go home. Sometimes you were there with me, but mostly you weren't. I always had a place to just be me, the grown-up with the hard job and the fun boyfriend."

Shawn stuck his hands in the apron pockets. "Don't you still have that?"

"No, Shawn. What I have is a deeper understanding of the role of the fun boyfriend."

"And that is…? Beyond being fun. Because I _know_ you know the importance of fun." His tone was almost… not condescending, but as if once again, he knew better than her. _Just catch up with me, Jules; I'm not going that fast_.

"I'm not cut out to live with one."

For five, maybe six seconds, Shawn looked at her, that all-masking hazel gaze unwavering. "Come on, sweetie. We tried the separation thing before and didn't work. We're better off together. You know it."

"I was thinking about that too, and I realized we never did have much of a separation, because you never once really gave me the space I asked for."

He frowned. "Because you knew we were supposed to work it out."

"I wanted to work it out on my own. That's all I asked. And you wouldn't respect my wishes."

"Jules, you _love_ me. You were hurting but we _needed_ each other."

"_I_ needed space," she repeated evenly. "And I couldn't see it then, because I was upset and shocked, but you coming around and interfering with every step of my life, including terrorizing my potential roommates—that wasn't you reminding me you loved me. That was you trying to control me. That was what a stalker does, Shawn."

"I caught a murderer!" he shot back. "If I'd let that first girl move in with you, she'd—" He stopped, remembering how it was.

Juliet smiled tightly. "She'd still be dead. You just scared the hell out of her _before_ she got murdered." She knew she sounded tart, but it was true.

"Well," he rallied, "if you hadn't kicked me out, she'd still be alive."

Juliet's jaw dropped. "Wow, Shawn. Wow. And wrong, because what was going in Laynie's life is what cost Kimberly hers. Where does the egomania end?"

Crap, she'd meant to stay calm. But Shawn let it go anyway. He stirred the spaghetti sauce vigorously, splashing some onto the stovetop, turning back to her with too-bright eyes.

"You love me."

Juliet nodded. She wasn't going to say the words out loud because she didn't feel them right now. She might later, and she had before, but right now: no.

"And you know I love you. More than anything, Jules. You _know_ that."

She knew he loved her as much as he could love a person. She nodded again.

"So what are we fighting about?"

Sitting down at the table and sipping soda, feeling the burn and wishing it was a stiff drink, Juliet shook her head. "We're not fighting. I'm telling you this isn't working for me. I tried, Shawn. I thought… we'd just barely moved in when I found out you weren't psychic. We'd barely started down this path. And I had to know whether we could still make it work. Because that's what we thought we wanted, right? The logical next step?"

In a normal relationship between normal people.

Shawn turned the heat down on the sauce and sat across from her. "Yeah. That's what we wanted."

"But all the stuff that makes you… _you_? All the fun, spontaneous stuff?"

He started to smile, because she was smiling.

She stopped smiling. "All the stuff that got me written up last week? All the stuff that's endangered my life and your life and Gus' life and way too many other lives over the years? All the stuff that drives Gus and your dad and Carlton and Chief Vick and now me insane? All the fun, spontaneous tricks and jokes and simple self-centeredness? Like not working, not buying groceries for a month but dropping fifty dollars on a stupid John Stamos cutout?"

He stopped smiling about halfway through.

"I look around me, at work, and I see all these cops who love their jobs like I do, and love their wives and husbands and girlfriends and children just as much. I'd be willing to bet that every single one of them, if they had to choose, would choose those relationships over their jobs. If they absolutely had to. Life or death, whatever. They'd choose the relationships."

Now he was absolutely motionless. Freaky, really.

Juliet took a deep breath.

He whispered, "No, Jules. Don't say it."

She had to.

"I choose my job over our relationship."

Abruptly he rose, the chair nearly falling over. He righted it roughly, not looking at her, yanking the apron off, throwing it across the room.

Juliet held on to the Coke Zero bottle, needing something in her hand to grip while his personal storm rode itself out.

"No," he said again. "I don't accept this. I didn't accept it before, and you saw I was right, and you took me back. I don't _accept_ this."

She _had_ loved him. So much fun, so… much a relief. Now so exhausting, and no relief at all.

"It's groceries, Jules. Groceries! I was out of work. I had no money! You can't decide you're done with me because of groceries!" He was yelling now, and he hadn't yelled at her before.

"You and Gus ate like kings every day. You went to movies. You played, Shawn. Since the day Trout fired Psych, you've done nothing but _play_."

"But that wasn't my money!"

"No, it wasn't! And while Gus doesn't mind picking up the tab all the time, I do. I can't." She sighed. "We should have just gotten another apartment, or stayed in mine. This place costs too much for one person to be paying all the bills."

"But you're not—dammit, Jules, this isn't fair." He steadied himself, gripping the back of his chair. "I love you."

"I know, Shawn. But I can't do this anymore." She stood up, not at all sure what he would do next.

Shawn said forcefully, "I'll change your mind. I did it before. I can do it again."

"I don't think so. This time I'm not shocked, and I'm not upset. I'm calm and my eyes are wide open and I see the future, Shawn. It looks a lot like the past few months."

"But what's a few months when it's the lifetime that matters?" He circled the table to stand in front of her, earnest and sincere in his uniquely Shawn way. "You think every couple married for fifty, sixty years claims it was all smooth sailing?"

Tears came to her eyes, belying her claim of calm, because she knew he really _was_ sincere. "No, I don't. But those people… they're not us. And blame it all on me if you have to. I mean, what kind of woman am I to admit I'd rather have my job than us? That I can't ride the Spencer Fun Train 24/7?"

Shawn clasped her hands, and she could feel his fear and pain. "You're everything I want, Jules." His voice was husky.

So was hers. "But I'm not everything you _need_. And I wish to God it were different, Shawn, but you're not what I need either."

He swore again that he'd change her mind. He swore.

But by sundown, he was gone.

**. . . . **

**. . .**


	12. Chapter 12: Not Only Starfish Regenerate

**CHAPTER TWELVE: Not Only Starfish Regenerate**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

While it was admittedly unlikely he'd be asked to demonstrate shooting prowess during his interviews at the end of the week, Carlton decided it wouldn't hurt to practice anyway.

Besides, he'd had enough of pacing the condo thinking about Juliet and the kiss: madness was rapidly encroaching. Plus he'd have to wax the floor again if he kept up the almost manic pace.

Early Sunday afternoon, the public shooting range wasn't busy—not that he was looking to socialize over the roar of the guns—so he got to work.

He made two embarrassingly (by his exacting standards) bad shots. Both were when his mind betrayed him by wandering back to the moments Juliet was in his arms, sighing and wanting and proving every fantasy true and surpassing all of them.

_Dammit._

_You have to let this go._

Never mind Henry's insistence that he should pursue the impossible because it might not be impossible (it was always impossible). Never mind the look in her eyes. Never mind those haunting words "_everything sucks without you_." Never mind texted forgiveness.

_You have to let this go._

Another bad shot—_her hands on his face, her body clinging to his_—and he wasn't going to waste any more ammunition.

He shot the hell out of the last target, dead center, and then packed up his gear, intending to go back home and soak his stupid head. Possibly in the dishwasher. While it was running.

Halfway to his car in the lot, and halfway wishing Juliet had never kissed him at all even if did mean she would go on hating him, he saw a familiar figure approaching from her own vehicle: Karen Vick.

She smiled as if she were actually glad to see him, and he was rather glad to see her: they had something new in common now that they'd both been Trouted. She looked good, he thought; rested in a way their "regular" hours seldom allowed for.

Karen volunteered that her husband had taken Iris to a father-daughter tea party, and since she wanted to keep up her own shooting skills, she hoped Carlton had left her at least a few paper targets.

He allowed as how there might be a few left and took the time to grouse about the idiot in the next shooting lane, earning a grin from his erstwhile supervisor as a result.

And then, when he was as comfortable as he could ever be with a colleague he'd known for years, she blindsided him the way women often could.

"You know, I never expected _you_ to retire," she said matter-of-factly. "Especially if it would allow Trout to think he'd won."

It felt like a criticism, but he simply shrugged. "Not like there was any guarantee what I'd be going back to when he leaves."

"O'Hara's of the opinion you gave up." Her tone was still matter-of-fact, but those shrewd brown eyes were studying him very carefully.

"Yeah, she made that clear," he said dryly.

"Oh, you've talked?"

Carlton hedged. "You could say that."

"Hmmm." She was still studying him carefully, but not judgmentally. "Work it out, Carlton."

A familiar flash of impatience overtook him. "Are you and Henry Spencer in cahoots?"

"No," she said with a laugh, "but if he thinks you and your BFF should stick together, he's right."

"BFF," he repeated. "You actually said BFF."

"Two-plus months at home with an eight-year-old will do that to a person." She tilted her head, amused. "How are things with O'Hara and Trout?"

"He gave her an official write-up last week. Bastard's trying to make her pay for Spencer's antics."

Karen's good mood vanished. "That soulless jerk. Was there any way she could have prevented whatever dumbass thing Spencer did?"

"Pretty sure she wasn't even there at the time."

She scowled. "He's got to be stopped. Trout, that is. Spencer, too, but I meant Trout. Honestly, I can survive my suspension, and I don't have any serious concerns about getting my job back, but what's going to be left of my department? He fired Buzz outright, he got you to quit, he's targeting O'Hara—who's next? And what's the point of it?"

"That he can."

Karen rolled her eyes. "Well, I've got a few well-placed connections I might have a word with about this nonsense. That idiot led me to believe I would be the only one taking a fall—it was the whole point of the suspension. But going after everyone else one by one isn't helping the city at all. I need the best people on staff, and that especially includes you and O'Hara."

"Don't waste time on my behalf," he said. "My retirement papers have been filed, I have interviews lined up out of town, and no one at City Hall is ever going to beg _me_ to come back. But if you could get him off O'Hara's case..." He trailed off. "I'd consider it a personal favor, Karen, and one you don't owe me at all."

She was at a loss for a moment. "Carlton, you can't possibly think you have no value to City Hall. Or the SBPD."

"Well," he admitted, "the D.A. did call me, but you know Clark just wants a _familiar_ son of a bitch in the prosecutor's witness box."

Karen laughed. "If _Clark_ called you, you might as well rescind that resignation right now. Is it official yet?"

"Still waiting for the confirmation, but who's going to fight it?"

She shook her head. "You're something else, Carlton. As perversely arrogant in your wrong assumptions here as you are correct about your considerable skills and strengths."

He blinked, somewhat taken aback. "Okay. Thanks?" _I think._

"Did you say you have interviews out of town?"

"Yeah. Santa Paula and Ventura."

"Can I talk you out of them?"

He grinned. "Flattering, but no. I'm already about half stir-crazy and there's only so much fishing I can do before I'll start making citizen's arrests. Of the _fish_."

She found this amusing, and didn't tell him he was exaggerating, which was more proof she knew him well after all these years.

_Then maybe you should believe what she said about your value. Karen Vick's not in the habit of tossing false compliments around_.

And if he accepted that, he'd have to consider the wisdom of her advice about Juliet, even if she was only talking about friendship. Unlike Henry, the wise-ass.

Before they parted ways, she muttered again about having a word with someone or other, but he didn't invest a lot of hope in her chances. Mayor Swagerty had let Karen's suspension stand for over two months: he was hardly about to take her advice to heart on anything concerning his golden boy Trout.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet walked into the station Monday morning, coffee in hand and resolve strong. Trout wasn't in yet, but she intended to have A Word with him before he left for the police chiefs' conference.

(And thank God for that: nearly three days without his foreboding presence would be a vacation for everyone, even if he did check in every ten minutes as threatened.)

Settling in at her desk, and looking around the quiet bullpen, she told herself she was going to be able to put her personal life aside for a few hours…

… as soon as it quit cycling in her head like a dryer stuck on 'permanent press.'

The house was still Shawn-free. She was sleeping in the guest room, knowing she would never spend another night in the master bedroom. All mental doors were closed to that relationship now, she hoped.

Henry and Gus came over Sunday afternoon and picked up some of Shawn's belongings—starting with his hair products and John Hughes DVDs. Shawn had also insisted on getting half the food, but since Gus knew how long Juliet had waited for groceries, he wasn't taking out so much as a thin mint.

She gave him all the junk food anyway, making sure the Twizzlers (and pimientos as a bonus) were on top.

Henry didn't have much to say except he was sorry. Of course, one of the reasons he was sorry was centered around Shawn's decision to stay with him for awhile (despite previous vows to the contrary). But he also found a moment to tell Juliet gently, "This is the right thing. You gave it a really good shot, kid."

It took the breath right out of her, and she hugged him, grateful he understood.

After they left, she surveyed her options. She wasn't going to try the roommate game again, and she wouldn't be able to swing the rent on her own for very long, and truthfully she simply didn't want to stay in the house anymore. It was the site of The Experiment, and with failure under her belt, it was time to move on. The lease was up in six weeks, and she'd give notice in two, and spend the time between looking for a place closer to the station.

Then there was Carlton. Several times she'd wanted to call him, because what happened in his condo felt… unfinished.

_You want more._

Not that kind of unfinished, she admonished herself. Unfinished in that they needed to talk about it, or to agree _not_ to talk about it, but either way some kind of talking about it was in order.

_You want him._

No. Yes… yes. But not now. She flushed just thinking about it.

The truest thing she'd told him that morning was that everything sucked without him.

The truest thing she hadn't _yet_ told him was that everything felt perfect when they were kissing, when she was wrapped up in his warmth and strength and ardency.

It had swirled around her after Shawn left, and all day Sunday, even when Henry and Gus were there to collect bits of nonsense from Shawn's life with her: that with Carlton, she felt more like herself—even angry and crying and homicidal—than she ever had in her months with Shawn.

But there was still so much to do, and this was the day the real Juliet O'Hara came back to life.

Trout strode in, glared in her direction, and zoomed into his office.

She took one more sip of coffee and went in after him.

"Whatever it is, I probably don't have time, so make it quick." Yet he sat in his chair as if he were the most relaxed man on earth.

Juliet closed the door, and Trout laughed.

"You've made it plain you want me out of this station," she said.

He grinned. "Well, looky here… if you came in to resign, turns out I have all the time in the world."

"I'm not resigning. I'm here to tell you that if I screw up in my _work_, if I'm a bad investigator or miss important information or cause a criminal to go free, or if I in any way forget my training and experience and just do a crappy job, then of course I should be terminated, or at least reassigned out of this department."

"Agreed, and duh. You could have put that in an email, sweetheart."

She took another step closer to the desk, and his pale blue gaze went to the new kitchen timer, as if it were in danger—which pleased her, although she dared not smirk.

"But I wasn't hired to babysit consultants, and Shawn Spencer's behavior has been well-documented as being beyond anyone's control, even yours. So if you intend to force me out based on the actions of a consultant we are under no obligation to even hire, I thought you should know I'll fight it."

"Oh, really." He was unimpressed. "And what good will that do you? You have no friends here anymore, O'Hara."

"I have enough friends to support me in fighting an unjust accusation, but honestly I don't even need friends for that. I only need facts, and the facts since you've been here show I've had no involvement in the actions you're blaming me for."

"Oh, really," he repeated, grinning again. "So you want me to fire Silvers for what happened at Ringo's?"

"I'll challenge that too on his behalf if you try it. Shawn Spencer is a thirty-seven-year old man who is fully responsible for his own behavior and if you want to stop that behavior from interfering with police work, then don't hire him. But this isn't about Shawn, Interim Chief Trout."

He scowled at the name. She loved how much he hated the reminder he wasn't permanent_._

"This is about me challenging any attempt on your part to terminate me for reasons other than my performance. I have an excellent service record and I'm pretty sure I could find a lawyer to stand up with me—and my excellent service record—to keep from being cheated out of a job I've done well for the last eight years."

Trout stared at her, simmering with things he knew better than to say out loud.

"As I said, I just thought you should know." She smiled slightly. "Have a good conference. I'm sure we'll hear from you many, many times while you're gone."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

He didn't call ahead because it was no big deal. He would knock, and if Henry wasn't home, he'd just leave the borrowed cooler around back.

The curtains were drawn and he couldn't see any signs anyone was home, but he knocked hard on the door and waited for a moment.

The sound from inside was startling—eerie moaning, shuffling—and for more than few seconds his cop brain thought _there's trouble in that house, and where the hell's my service weapon?_

But in a moment, with Carlton holding the cooler warily as both a barrier and a potential (if unwieldy) blunt instrument, the door swung open to reveal Shawn Spencer.

He was tousled, rumpled, unkempt, unsavory and un-gelled. "Lassie. What."

Exactly. _What_? "Uh… maybe I should ask _you_ that."

Spencer gave him a baleful glare. "Go ahead."

"Never mind." He held the cooler out. "Returning this to Henry."

"Ha," Spencer said. "What's wrong? Where's the big inquiring mind Jules always tells me you have? Hot-shot Head Detective?"

"He retired. Gotta go." He thrust the cooler at him, but Spencer backed away.

_Why is he here, looking like crap… oh hell, Juliet dumped him. Thank God but oh hell._

"Dad's around. Dad!" He bellowed, and gestured for Carlton to come in.

Carlton did not want to come in. He set the cooler on the porch next to the door.

"What?" Spencer persisted belligerently. "Never saw a cool guy down before? Come in!"

Carlton was _not_ going in. "Goodbye, Spencer."

He turned, ignoring the demands of Junior, to be met by Henry coming up the walk.

"Henry," he said as if The Horror wasn't directly behind him. "Brought your cooler back. Thanks for the loan." He started to go on, but Henry blocked his path.

This wasn't good. Caught between The Horror and The Horror's Patriarch.

"Hold up a minute," Henry said urgently.

From the porch, something approximating a wounded wolf's cry… no… moan: "Laaaassssssieeeeee!"

"You can't make me go back there, Henry."

Quick grin, fading fast. "Let me just walk you to your car. Shawn! Shut it!"

"Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad!" was the response.

Rolling his eyes, Henry muttered something about drama queens and kept their pace fast out to the street and behind the tallest bushes which lined the fence. "He's been like that since Saturday."

Carlton didn't really want to know. Not consciously. But he said, "Juliet broke it off, I take it."

"Yeah." He gave him an odd look.

Instantly impatient, he shook his finger at Henry. "Can it. No matter how much you've been nagging me, you can't honestly think I'd go make a move on a woman who just ended a relationship."

"Well, you could just go be her _friend_, but what I was _going_ to say was that I'm surprised you didn't know, given how she looked when I saw her at your place Saturday morning."

Carlton's internal _oh crap she had _just_ broken it off when she came over upset_ was punctuated by another howl from Henry's porch.

Henry shouted again for Wolfboy to shut up, and drew Carlton further down the walk. "I mean, that's why she was there, right?"

He could feel not just his eyebrows but also his entire brain frowning. "She didn't tell me anything about that, and we haven't talked since then."

They didn't even talk while she was there, really. She shouted, she told him everything was his fault, she said yelling at Shawn was useless, and she kissed him. A lot. And very very damned well.

Did she blame him for the breakup too? Or was he simply the one person she could take her pain out on after a really bad morning? And did that make him someone she trusted, or just a temporary punching bag?

Henry was persisting. "Then why was she there?" He'd asked a thousand times during the fishing expo.

"Why did she break it off?" Carlton countered.

"You know why."

"If I knew why, I wouldn't be asking you."

He sighed. "Because Shawn's Shawn. He says it was over groceries and John Stamos, but ultimately it had to be because he's Shawn."

"John Stamos?"

"Yeah, and I don't mind telling you that damn cutout scares the hell out of me every time I walk through the dining room."

Carlton shook his head free of this distracting image. "Right, I'm outta here. Good luck with the walking dead. And I never thought I'd say this about another man, but get him some hair gel. Guy looks like crap."

"I'll be happy if he just takes a shower. So are you going to go see Juliet?"

_Poke. Poke. Poke._

"No, I am not going to see Juliet. She's working. If she wanted me to know about her personal life, she would have told me. Goodbye."

"Lassiter, it's not like I'm telling you to go over there and _do_ her," Henry said bluntly. "Just don't be unavailable when she needs you. You get it?"

Impatience won out again. "I've never been unavailable, Henry. I just haven't been first choice. Or second. Most of the time, not even third." He walked away while Henry was staring at him, and as he got into his Fusion, he actually sympathized with Wolfboy as he howled one more time at the injustice of his world.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The day—a peaceful day, despite the regular mayhem of a busy police station—was nearly over when Carlton texted her.

Juliet sank back into the chair—his chair—and read the words slowly, her heart first thumping because it was startlingly wonderful to see his name at all, and then because of the message.

_Did being mad at me contribute to your breakup with Spencer?_

Why would he think that?

_How did you find out?_

_Henry told me. Am I to blame in any way? _

She sighed, and felt a bittersweet gladness he was even _asking_.

_No. If being mad at you contributed, then I owe you, Carlton._

Pause. She was a little surprised she'd actually typed it, and wondered if he was wrestling between 'it's about time' and 'um, okay.'

_I can't accept thanks for something that made you hurt so much you came over ready to kill me._

It took a few seconds for her to realize he had the timeline wrong, but then no one but Henry knew she'd gone to see him, and Shawn was unlikely to have specified the exact time at which she'd ended their relationship.

But that Carlton would even express this… she blinked back tears. He was so much more than anyone realized. So much more considerate of her than even _he_ knew.

_No, Carlton. I tried to kill you before I broke it off with Shawn. _

She'd almost typed _I kissed you first._

His response, again, took a few moments.

_You had a busy weekend. Are you all right?_

She smiled.

_Trout's out until Thursday. Things are looking up._

As if he hadn't even waited for her answer, another text popped up immediately.

_I mean it, Juliet. I know I've caused you a lot of aggravation over the years but I told you already I will always help you if I can. And I know maybe there's not a lot anyone can do to help at a time like this, but if you think of _anything_, please call me first._

_Oh, God_, she thought. He really was… her… anchor. She bit her lip to keep from sniffling even more than she already was.

_I will. I promise. Thank you, Carlton._

_Don't you thank me for anything. I owe you too much already._

Dammit, now she had to go for the box of tissues.

_May I call you later?_

Hard to key in the letters with misty eyes.

_Anytime_, he answered. _Any damned time you want_.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	13. Chapter 13: Hoist By His Own Petard

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Hoist By His Own Petard**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet thought he sounded hesitant. It wasn't like him, and she was fascinated.

"So," he began.

"So…?"

"So I was thinking…"

She was alone in her room—and it _was_ her room now, the guest room. Light from scented candles reflected off the walls and ceilings and the prisms dangling from her lampshade. The house was shut up tight (and the locks changed, because she just couldn't be sure of anything with Shawn, especially after his refusal to honor _any_ of her requests to be left alone when they first broke up), all was quiet and she felt calm. Safe.

Content. Delightfully _content_ for the first time in ages.

"Yes?" she prompted.

"I was thinking, after what we talked about?"

"What was that?"

"I was thinking… maybe… we could… date."

Calm turned to annoyance, but she bit back the tone which demanded to be let out for a good run. "No, Shawn."

"Jules, just listen."

"No. Why would you even ask me that? It's only been two days since we broke up."

"Jules, you said you couldn't _live_ with the fun boyfriend. But you didn't say you wanted to be done with him. Me. With us. You said we were fine until we moved in together. So if we go back to dating, I'll have some time to… make some adjustments." He paused. "And maybe be who you want me to be."

Oh, there was _so_ much wrong with his words. Juliet flung herself back against her pillows. She had been on the verge of calling Carlton when her cell rang, and she had no idea why she took the chance on answering a call from Shawn instead. No idea. Stupid. Sucker.

_Patsy._

She steeled herself: those days were gone. And thank God for Carlton's voice in her head, reminding her of how far gone she herself had been.

"You should never try to be who someone else wants you to be. Your whole life, Shawn, has been about willfully and obstinately being _you_, no matter what it cost. Why would you want to change for someone else now?"

"Because… because being me cost me you." He sighed. "Look, no matter what anyone says, or, you know, how I act, I'm not an idiot."

"I know. That's what's so frustrating about you."

"And I love you, sweetie, and I need you, and I want you back."

Juliet swallowed. "I'm sorry. I believe that you think you want to change, but you shouldn't, even if you could."

"When people tell me I can't," he said defiantly, "it makes me try harder to prove them wrong."

"No… it makes you try harder to prove that what they want is ridiculous, even when it's not. How did you do when Chief Vick sent you to the academy?"

"Oh, come on, that had nothing to do with _us_."

"Everything does eventually. Seriously, when have you ever simply done what someone asked you to do? Without argument, without twisting it into some kind of game, without having to be the one who somehow comes out on top, even if it's only by getting the other person to wish he hadn't even tried?"

"Jules, none of that stuff ever involved you."

"No? I was sitting right there when you belittled the entire SBPD and especially Chief Vick at Mayor Channing's ceremony, remember? My job was on the line along with Carlton's after you got caught breaking into Czarsky's place. And I've had to watch you embarrass my partner time and again, not because he had it coming but because you just felt like doing it. This is who you are, Shawn. It's the very core of who you are."

_Part showman, part bully, all narcissist._

"It doesn't have to be," he insisted. "So why can't we date? I know you'd eventually have gotten around to saying we could be friends, right? So why can't we be friends who date? I want you in my life, Jules. I'll take what I can get."

Her heart was squeezing and squeezing but it wasn't any kind of good feeling. It was a smothering, painful feeling.

"I'm sorry, but you can't have _that_. Not yet. And I don't know when or even _if_ I'll change my mind."

"Jules," he sighed again. "You're not giving us a chance."

The candles flickered, and the room seemed colder.

"We had our chance. Our _chances_. Now I need time and distance between us. And I'm not asking you for it, Shawn. I'm _taking_ it. If you want anything left of our friendship at all, you need to just let this be over. The longer you fight, the harder everything's going to be."

He was silent a few moments, and Juliet let herself be mesmerized by the nearest candle's red-orange flame.

"It's already hard," he murmured.

Yes, it was. At the same time, she was so relieved it was over. So very relieved that the sheer day-to-day stress of life with Shawn was receding.

And so anxious to talk to Carlton, it was embarrassing.

"Goodnight, Shawn." She disconnected without waiting for a reply.

One second later, she speed-dialed her blue-eyed Irish cop, who answered on the first ring.

"Juliet." His voice was warm. He was glad to hear from her… and would ask her nothing. Demand nothing. He was just there for her, and the room warmed and the candles got brighter and the pain in her chest eased and she relaxed, almost melting into the pillows.

"Carlton, if a woman told you it was over, would you call her up two days later asking if you could date?"

Pause.

He answered dryly, "I'm probably not the best person to ask. Remember, I spent years beating the dead horse that was my marriage."

"But it's not the same thing. That was a _marriage._ You'd already invested years in it, and she didn't tell you it was over, just that she wanted a separation."

"Nevertheless, I didn't make it easy. And look, I know Spencer's smarter than he lets on, but good Lord, a brain-eating bacteria would _starve_ to death in his head."

She shouldn't have laughed, but she did, and Carlton threw in a few more one-liners until she begged him to stop.

Catching her breath, and enjoying the smug (and this was a _good_ smug) cadence of his voice, she sighed out a quiet thanks.

"What for? I'm not actually supposed to take potshots at your brand new ex."

"I needed it, though. It took the edge off." She felt so much better; it was almost as embarrassing as how much she'd wanted to talk to him to begin with.

"Well, don't thank me for anything. I owe you too much."

She was touched by this, but couldn't agree. "I think it's the other way around these days."

"No," he said, almost husky now. "It'll always be me owing you, Juliet. I racked up a lot of debt over the years."

_Oh, to look into those glorious blue eyes right now_, she thought breathlessly. "So did I. You just passed it off as me being an incomprehensible woman."

"There is that," he agreed, and she laughed. He went on, "You can tell me about Spencer, if you want, but you don't have to. I have a pretty good idea of how attempting to break up with someone like him might go."

"Yeah, you probably do. It was Saturday afternoon. I just… hit the wall. There wasn't even any drama, really, at least not on my side. Guess I spent the drama out on you," she added, but then didn't quite want to talk about _that_ just yet. "Henry and Gus came to get some of his things yesterday and I changed all the locks last night."

"Good girl. Spencer's not really into observing boundaries." He paused again. "I admit I'm curious to know what the _hell_ John Stamos had to do with this."

Juliet found herself laughing again, although the stupid cutout hadn't previously seemed amusing. He told her about his encounter with Wolfboy and Henry, and she told him about 'Date Night.'

Carlton was satisfactorily appalled—and she was relieved; too much time in Shawn's company, where madness was the norm, sometimes made her question whether her own sanity was an illusion. He was also satisfactorily proud of her decision to walk out of the restaurant, and she in turn was proud of him that his next question was, "How are you now?" rather than returning to the too-easy task of castigating her ex.

"I'm going to be okay, Carlton. I really am. I'm going to enforce distance between me and Shawn. And… if… you've got my back, partner—"

"You know I do," he interrupted firmly. "Always."

She felt so light. "Then the only pirate ship on the horizon is Trout, really, and I gave _him_ what-for first thing this morning."

Carlton actually whistled in appreciation when she explained what she meant. "He never saw you coming, O'Hara, and I do mean O'Hara."

Juliet was oddly charmed… but then lately he'd been having all sorts of unexpected effects on her.

_I would love to kiss you again._

_A lot_.

They were going to have to Talk About It, but not tonight. Tonight was for applying balm to the wounds—those from Shawn, and those from the last few weeks, including the wounds Carlton had unintentionally inflicted but were for her own damned good.

Some were of her own making, too… those caused by ripping off the blinders she'd worn so closely and so tightly that she never saw what was happening to her as a cop, let alone a woman. Or a friend.

She _was_ going to be all right, and she would be all right even if she were plucked out of Santa Barbara and relocated to Paducah in the morning. But knowing she had Carlton—and herself—on her side, 'all right' seemed a lot closer than before.

"What are your plans?" she asked idly. She assumed he'd find work here; this was his home.

Carlton hesitated. "I have interviews in Ventura and Santa Paula at the end of the week."

'All right' abruptly backed off about ten miles.

"Oh." She sounded faint. She felt faint.

"I need to arrest someone soon," he said more lightly.

"But… aren't there any openings in the Sheriff's department? Or the highway patrol? Or—the Coast Guard? There must be something closer."

"The Coast Guard has one opening," he admitted, "but a little Barbara Dunlap goes a long damned way."

_You didn't think that when you wanted to date her_, she almost said, and was stunned by a sudden flash of jealousy.

"And even if Trout buggers off tomorrow, it's not like the mayor's going to come knocking to get me back on board."

"He _might_. Don't be so sure."

After another pause, he asked carefully, "Are you… snapping at me?"

Juliet felt herself flushing, because she _was_ snapping.

"I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry. It's just… well, it's selfish of me, I know, but you're…"

_You're what? _

"You're like the last bastion of…"

"Juliet," he said, so gently.

"I don't want you to leave me again," she said in a rush. "It's selfish and self-centered but I don't want you to leave me. Not again, and not now. I _need_ you, Carlton."

_And I don't know what I'll do if you go away._

"I have to work." He was still gentle. "I don't want to leave you either. Hell, you're the one reason I'd stay—the best reason. But I can't work here, and both of those places are less than an hour up the road."

"You _know_ how it is on the job. There's no time to get away, none." Dear Lord, she was starting to sound hysterical.

"Juliet," he repeated. "There's the phone, and are you kidding? I'm not disappearing from your life until you kick me out of it. I have enough trouble hanging on to friends as it is. Besides, I haven't even had the interviews yet. I might not get offered either job."

"Of course you will! Only an idiot wouldn't hire you!" She caught herself up short, because she was actually seriously on the verge of tears.

"Easy. Easy, girl. Come on now. With everything you've accomplished just in the last four days, this should be a breeze."

"It's not!" Then she _was_ crying. "I know I'm a selfish idiot, but it's not easy at all!"

"O'Hara. You are not an idiot and you are not selfish. It's flattering the hell out of me that you think having me around seems like a good thing, but I am _not_ leaving you. If I get one of those jobs, you and I will meet for dinner at least one night every week and we will talk on the phone every other night and we'll text each other about stupid criminals and co-workers and district attorneys and it won't be any different than if I got a job right here in town."

He was commanding, and he was right, and she felt the hysteria receding. Of course he was right. Of course he was.

"_I am not leaving you."_

It replayed in her head: the force with which he'd spoken.

"_Hell, you're the one reason I'd stay—the best reason."_

This replayed in her head too: the _gentleness_ with which he'd spoken.

Juliet blew her nose and slowly started to come back to adulthood. She was learning a lot about herself lately, wasn't she?

For one thing, she was learning exactly how important Carlton was to her, in ways she'd never dared dream of before, because now, out of the station, with job-partnership essentially behind them, they were just two people… and it seemed clear that the friendship which was born out of work had surpassed it, growing enough to stand on its own—with nary a gun, casefile or perp in sight.

_The fact that you know he still loves you… and that you'd really really like to kiss him again… is immaterial, right?_

_Never mind that, O'Hara. Quit blubbering like a ninny and appreciate what he's telling you._

"Okay," she managed. "I'm okay. Clearly I'm kind of a mess right now."

He was still firm. "_If_ you are a mess, and I am in no way agreeing that you are, you have more than enough reason after the last couple of weeks."

"Don't be so understanding. I need to shape up. Trout will be back on Thursday, so my little oasis of peace will come to an end."

"I could take him out, if you want."

He said it so matter-of-factly that for a second she believed him.

"I could rig that freaking egg timer. I've got mad skills, you know."

Juliet's laughter drove the rest of her panic back into the deep shadow, and when she fell asleep smiling, she knew Trout could have no lasting power over her as long as Carlton was part of her oasis.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton fell asleep more bemused than amused.

_You gave too much away._

But wasn't this the time—and wasn't she the woman who most deserved it—for honesty?

_You promised to stay in her life. That's not good for you. She needs you now because you're familiar—the devil she _knows_. But she's not always going to need you this way. Get Trout gone, and her life will settle down, and you'll be in another county and soon those weekly dinners and daily phone calls will fall by the wayside_.

He couldn't argue with the voice. The voice was chillingly logical.

_And you can damned well forget about ever kissing her again._

_Except…except she _cried_ at the thought of me leaving. She _cried_. She pleaded that she needs me._

_It's fear_, the Chill Bastard insisted. _Panic at the thought of yet more change_.

"Bastard," he whispered to the ceiling.

_I know. But I'm never wrong._

"_Try_, dammit. Just once."

He added a silent _please_ to the darkness.

The darkness gave no answer.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet and Dobson came back from a rushed lunch after a full morning of tracking down pimps—who didn't like getting up that early one bit—and after Dobson went on into the bullpen, Sergeant Allen held her back to hand over a stack of messages.

She had a decided gleam in her large dark eyes. "Detective, have you got a minute?"

"Just about." Processing the pimps would take the rest of the day.

Allen came out from behind the desk and led her around the corner to the bench in the entryway, where she sat down. Juliet, curious, followed suit.

"Have you heard anything about the police chiefs' conference?"

"No. Oh God, please tell me Trout's not coming back early."

"He is," Patricia said, but didn't seem displeased. "But wait until you hear why."

She braced herself. He was going to fire everyone but Patricia? He was doing away with coffee rations? What? "I'm listening. And I'm nervous."

Patricia grinned. "My cousin Billy works security at the conference hotel. You know Mayor Swagerty went up there to sit in on the same panel as Trout? The presentation where he was gonna brag about how much progress he's made here?"

"Progress," Juliet muttered. "If you call morale in the toilet _progress_."

"I don't." For the first time her good cheer faded. "That man could make Bobby McFerrin want an anti-depressant."

Juliet smirked. "_Do_ worry; Trout's crappy?"

The smile came back. "You got that right. But anyway, Billy was minding the room where the presentation was taking place. There's Swagerty up there at the side, and he's all beaming and happy and ready to hear good stuff, and there's Trout standing up in the middle doin' his thang."

She paused.

Juliet prompted her with, "And then the ceiling fell in and took them both out? Okay, maybe that's a bit harsh."

Patricia only snickered a little. "This is better. Or maybe worse. Thing is, Trout's idea of praising his work? Was to diss the hell out of Santa Barbara. Not just the police department, but pretty much every other agency we work with. Then he started playing it like _he_ was turning everything around single-handedly. You know, how if it weren't for him we'd be under martial law to stop the looting and gang warfare."

"Oh my God… are you serious?"

"He even made it sound like it was a miracle Swagerty had the sense to hire him. Billy said Swagerty turned all kinds of purple. Thought he was gonna stroke out up there."

She could only stare in wonder—and more than a little horror.

"Swagerty got up next and Billy said he did what he could to undo the damage. Said sometimes outside consultants are good at what they do because they _are_ from outside, but at the same time, they don't know the heart of a city like we do."

"Well… that's good… isn't it?"

Patricia cackled. "So Trout gets up and says you don't have to _have_ a disease to recognize it."

Juliet felt that if her eyes got any wider, they'd pop right out of her head. "Oh my God," she repeated.

"Billy said Swagerty came back at him and said the other good thing about consultants was they were temporary."

A gasp escaped.

"Everybody got real quiet, Billy said, and then they started laughing a little, so Trout played it like Swagerty was joking, and then the next presenter jumped up and took over."

Juliet was horrified for the city and even for Swagerty and at the same time agog in a way she hadn't been in a very long while.

However, Patricia wasn't finished. "Billy told me all that last night. But this morning while you and Dobson were rounding up pimps, he called to say he happened to be near the front desk when Trout was checking out."

"A day early?"

"A _full_ day early. With Swagerty at his side and looking like the very devil himself."

"But weren't they supposed to repeat the presentation today?"

"Billy said the computerized schedule was amended to remove Trout's name. Not only that, but he overheard Swagerty tell Trout to get the hell back to Santa Barbara and stay in his damn office and don't talk to anyone, at all, not even his mother, until he hears from Swagerty himself."

She couldn't help it: her hand went to her mouth. Laughter was bubbling up, even though this delicious turn of events didn't bode well for anyone at the station. Trout was never in a good mood unless he could do evil, and to be stifled by the mayor like this…

"What was Trout's reaction? I mean, what was his demeanor?"

"Pissed. But quiet. And then—" She giggled a little. "His kitchen timer went off. It was stuck somewhere down in his bags and it dinged and Swagerty just looked at him like he was a full-blown idiot. Billy said he like to bust out laughing but he knew he better keep his mouth shut."

"O. M. G.," Juliet said slowly. "This is absolutely amazing. My God, do you realize that if Swagerty's mad enough, he might actually fire Trout?"

"Don't you be a dreamer now. No way will Swagerty cut him loose yet. He has to justify himself to the city. He hasn't been mayor long enough to have a slipup like this on his record. He's gonna be all about damage control now." Patricia stood up, brushing off her immaculate slacks and shaking her head, the feathery earrings shaking along with her. "What's walking in here later is a fiery mad fish with a few extra sticks up his butt, and every last one of us is gonna pay. One way or the other, we're all gonna pay."

Juliet smiled anyway, first at the tile floor and then up at the amused Booking Officer. "Sergeant Allen, I have never been more grateful that you know everyone and everything around here."

"Mmm-hmmm. The only thing I don't know is why in the hell Detective Lassiter didn't stick around long enough to see this day himself." She headed back toward her desk.

Following, Juliet said diffidently, "Didn't think _you'd_ be missing Lassiter."

Patricia was surprised. "Who doesn't miss him? Big teddy bear," she said fondly, and then both of the desk phones rang and Juliet stepped back to let her work.

_Wow_, she thought, walking to her desk. _Just… wow_.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	14. Chapter 14: Roller Coasters

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Roller Coasters**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"She misses you," she said, her voice warm in his ear.

"Who does?"

"Allen."

He frowned immediately. "Allen who?"

Juliet laughed. "Sergeant Patricia Allen? Booking?"

"The hell she does," he scoffed, swinging his legs up onto the sofa and settling back for this phone call, already the highlight of the day simply because he was talking to _Juliet_.

"She called you a teddy bear."

"The hell she did."

"The hell she _did_," Juliet mocked.

"Why? Was she comparing me to something worse, like a plague of Spencers or a rising tide of zombies? I'm not sure I could defeat an organized group of Spencers, but I think I could take down a couple dozen undead. Maybe more if I've had coffee first."

"_Organized_ Spencers?" she repeated dubiously.

"Good point. Never happen. Okay, I can take them out too. Well," he amended, "definitely not until after coffee."

She laughed again—a sound he so loved. "And no, she wasn't comparing you to anyone else, although to be fair, we had just been talking about Trout, and speaking of _disorganized_ Spencers, I don't believe I ever really thanked you for making it possible for Shawn to catch Jerry Carp."

Carlton froze.

She waited a few seconds. "Carlton."

_Pay attention_. "There's nothing to thank me for. Spencer did it all on his—"

"The hell he did," Juliet insisted, "and I'm not asking for details. But I know it was you who planned that operation, and you're the real reason we got Carp and Drake and the reason Shawn survived his own craziness."

"I…"

He had nothing. He didn't want to lie to her, but neither did he want to admit he'd helped Spencer for _her_. To ease her mind about Spencer's anger-induced instability.

"So thank you." Her voice was soft.

_His_ voice was gruff. "You're welcome."

Juliet let it pass, as promised. "Now let me tell you a story about Trout, courtesy of Patricia Allen, who really did call you a teddy bear."

He listened with considerable awe, and could easily imagine both Swaggerty and Trout up at the podium engaged in an alpha-male battle of wills.

"I hoped maybe the mayor would fire him but Patricia burst my bubble."

"Yeah, Trout's too new of an experiment for Swaggerty to bail on him yet. Besides, so far Trout's got him convinced he's streamlining and all that crap."

She sighed.

"However," he mused, "Swaggerty's going to pay a lot closer attention to him now."

"Good enough for me. We were expecting Trout to come back in this afternoon but I guess he went home to lick his wounds."

"Or call his mother."

Juliet seemed to be snickering. "I wonder if his mother would get along with your mother."

"Please. No one gets along with my mother."

"What about Althea?"

He'd told her once during a long night's stakeout about Althea's role in his mother's life. "Althea is an unusually kind and tolerant lady. She's sort of an older, larger and blacker version of you, actually."

"Carlton," she said, laughing. "That's either sweet or ridiculous. Maybe both."

"I have a lot of free time these days. I'm perfecting new skills."

She said gently, "I like the sweet."

He felt an odd little flutter, maybe goosebumps, and couldn't help but feel her in his arms again, as if Saturday morning was moments ago and he could still breathe her lovely warm scent.

After a moment, she said, "Did I tell you Trout made me move over to your desk?"

Surprisingly, he liked the idea. There was a time he'd have hated it—he remembered being appalled (_jealous_) years ago when he saw her with Drimmer (_hey, buddy, that's _my_ partner_), and saw Drimmer toss her the car keys so she could drive _their_ Vic—but now it seemed right.

"Are you okay with that?" she asked.

"Absolutely. Who else could hold that chair down as well as I did? Did he do it so he could see you better?"

"No, it was part of the mind-game stuff he loves, wanting me to feel guilty because I had your job and your desk and your chair and your… _everything_."

_Manipulative bastard. _

"But it didn't work, did it. You're tougher than he thinks, and he's an ass. Still, take good care of that chair. It was my second skin for a long time."

_Like you. _

She let out a little sigh. "It makes me think of you. Dobson—or maybe Miller; my head's jumbled—said the desk must be haunted because I've been extra cranky since I moved over there."

He grinned. Couldn't help it. "I promise I am _not_ haunting your desk."

"Good."

"Just the coffee pot."

Juliet laughed. "That explains a few things. I do miss you. The bullpen's not the same. The air's different. Everything's off a few degrees. I know Trout's got a lot to do with it but the minute he put you on patrol, the whole place just… went… wrong."

He felt that little flutter again—truthfully he'd felt the flutter whenever Juliet said something nice to him, because even though she said nice things to everyone, being one of the 'everyone' was always a bit of an enchanting experience for him.

"I'm sure Vick's absence contributed," he said after a pause. "And McNab's. A whole lot changed overnight. Bound to twist a few undies."

"And hearts," she murmured. "I'm… sorry, you know. About… us. That you felt I'd changed."

"Juliet—" _Please don't go there. Please_.

"No, let me. I'm still feeling this out but you were right. I did let my standards drop. It's ironic that Trout being here and being a power-mad ass is actually part of the cure. It's like you administered the injection but he's the one enforcing the follow-up diet regimen."

He ached anew, cursing himself for how exactly he'd administered that injection.

"You know I never meant to hurt you." He'd said it before but he _needed_ her to believe him. Hurting her was never his intention; it was just a byproduct of the truth, which had demanded its outlet.

"I know." She was still quiet. "I know you didn't. But you had to, to make me see, and I'm seeing now. And I'm coming back. I wish you were in the bullpen with me to watch it happen, but I'm coming back."

He didn't remember doing it, but he was sitting up now in the dim room, elbow on his knee, phone tight against his ear, tension holding him in position so he could say this to her.

"I think my being gone is the best thing for you."

She drew in a breath.

Carlton went on, somewhat urgently, "I know it's been a hell of a ride and not one you'd have taken voluntarily but if Trout hadn't busted me down, and if I hadn't been a jerk, then… what would have changed?"

It was the closest he could allow himself to get to the words _because I can't take back what I said_.

Juliet was quiet for a long time; he thought he could hear her shifting position, and imagined she was lying in bed.

"You're right," she said at last, without inflection. "Nothing would have changed. Not now anyway. I _know_ I would have eventually cut Shawn loose but having it tied to my sense of who I am and what I really want from my life and my work—that's because it's now. So… I owe you."

"No," he protested. "I didn't mean that. I don't want—" He sat up straight, shoving his free hand through his hair. "You're strong, Juliet. You don't need anyone to help you do anything, and you don't owe anyone a damned thing, least of all _me_."

"Oh Carlton," she said gently. "Carlton… shut up."

"What?"

"Shut up. Just shut up, okay? I need you. And I like needing _you_. And I love that you're there for me. So shut up when I tell you thanks. Can you do that for me? Can you just shut up and let me thank you?"

"I—" He scratched his head, embarrassed and touched and unable to explain why his heart was racing. "Maybe."

She laughed lightly, and just like that the tension was gone and the fluttering returned and he had no idea how to get himself back under control.

"We'll start small, then," she promised. "You halfway shut up this time and maybe the next time you'll shut up three-quarters, and then the next time—"

"No next times," he said firmly. "You'll have no reason to thank me for anything."

"I think I will. I think in a few weeks I'll be asking you to help me move."

He wasn't about to touch that topic yet. "I'll bring the plastic sheeting and the quicklime."

She burst into laughter. "Not a body! Just boxes and lamps and stuff."

"Well, you know what they say, right? Friends help you move. _Real_ friends help you move bodies."

Juliet sighed, and his heart sighed at the contentment he heard in _her_ sigh. "You _are_ a real friend. The best I've ever had, really."

But before he could react properly, she moved on, asking how he would be occupying his time tomorrow while she toiled at the station.

"With boring tasks," he said. "Dry cleaners, shooting range, haircut."

She went quiet again for a moment, long enough to make him worry. "For your interviews."

"Yeah." He still didn't know what to make of her on this: it was pleasing that she didn't want him to go, troubling that she might be feeling abandoned, and confusing because despite everything, he _still_ didn't see how his removal from the immediate area would be any big loss to her. Not over time, anyway. She was just too lovely and friendly and outgoing to be sans close friends, and so far as he knew, no one in his past had ever bemoaned his absence.

"Well…" She seemed to gather herself. "Okay, just don't you dare get a buzz cut like you did a few years ago, and don't have it cut too close on the side. You're too attractive to go for the Army recruit look, and if you're leaving me for some other police department, you might as well look your very best."

He had to stop himself from saying: _I'm not leaving you, unless you cut me loose._

Then he had to stop himself from saying: _wait… you think I'm attractive?_

He felt himself blushing—_she thinks I'm attractive_—and geeky and totally unprepared to be forty-four and blushing and geeky. He cleared his throat. "Okay, I'll keep that in mind." Then, because at heart he was _fifteen_ and blushing and geeky, he blurted out, "You think I'm attractive?"

No pause on her side, only amusement. "Of course, silly."

"_Silly_?"

"Come on. Those big blue eyes alone probably get you into most of your compromising situations."

His mouth was opening and closing but nothing came out at first. "And my big stupid mouth kicks me right out of them. Not that I've had that many compromising situations. Dammit, stop being nice."

"Nope," she said impertinently. "Besides, I heard a rumor about you a while back."

"I don't want to know."

"It was from Ursula Gibbs."

"God, no, Juliet, stop. That woman is a psycho from the heart of hell and she—"

"She said things about you which made me blush, Carlton."

He went mute.

"Blush," she repeated.

He was still mute. He remembered Ursula's… er… positive reactions… during the one night they spent together, and he remembered her initial flattering pursuit of him, but he also remembered she was rabid bat-poop crazy.

"You have nothing to say?" Juliet prompted, teasing.

"No, I do not." He would strangle on his own embarrassment.

"Then her remarks of high praise will go uncontested," she said with satisfaction.

He went back to mute.

Juliet laughed—no, _giggled_, dammit—while he allowed himself to wonder how it might have been for her to hear from his one-time lover that he'd acquitted himself well.

"Stop tittering." He tried to sound commanding.

But it was no good. Juliet only laughed more, and the sound of it eventually got through his embarrassment… but not the fluttering, which seemed permanent now.

These phone calls were a roller coaster. He'd never been a fan of roller coasters... but somehow, sharing the ride with Juliet was becoming quite addictive.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Trout came in on Wednesday morning and spoke to no one.

This was good, but also worrisome, because he looked like icy thunder. Everyone stayed clear, and no one was summoned.

Juliet had to take him some reports and statistics, but she waited until he headed toward the restroom before she went in, because she was no fool.

This worked the first time, but the second time, he turned around as soon as she was close enough to the office for there to be no turning back. He snatched the folder out of her hand. "Give me a case update," he barked.

Staying where she was, she began to give a staccato recitation of the active cases from the reports now in his hand.

He held her gaze the whole time—cold flat blue—(_nothing like Carlton's; no beauty in him at all_)—and when she was finished, he said, "Is that _it_?"

It had been seven active cases, worked by four teams.

"For this afternoon," she said smoothly. "The morning's cases were in the earlier file."

"Your teams should be doing more, O'Hara."

"Would you like a report from the Cold Case team daily instead of weekly? I could also include Traffic."

"I've been looking at the files, you know. I see Lassiter managed to keep track of the active cases as well as report on Narcotics, Gangs, and more. Why aren't you able to provide that output?"

_Because you're an ass._

"I've only had the job for a week, sir. I still have a bit of a learning curve."

"You were partnered with the man for nearly eight years! You should know the job as well as he did!"

Still even, and damned proud of herself for it, she said, "Detective Lassiter worked a considerable amount of overtime—not all of it recorded—to provide a complete picture of department activities. Also, we've been short two positions since you came here. Are you planning to fill McNab's position? Or hire a detective to replace Lassiter's hours?"

Carlton had regularly worked at least fifty hours a week, often more; one full-time detective wasn't going to cover the shortfall, but it would help.

He gave her a scowl. "Costs have to be cut."

"Then the price has to be paid." She managed a faint smile. "I can only assure you that my detectives and I will always work to the best of our ability."

Now he lightened up, but as usual the grin was mirthless and more like a sneer. "We'll see about that, won't we?" He walked a few feet away from her, into the bullpen, and bellowed, "Everyone listen up!"

Instant silence.

Juliet, already filled with dread, stayed where she was until he jerked his head for her to come closer.

"Detective O'Hara here has been providing the necessary reports on your casework, and I'm pleased to say you're all doing a commendable job."

The silence grew, and some of the people staring at him relaxed a little—he was smiling, so how bad could it be?

_Save us, Lord_, she thought. _Send a tidal wave_.

"Unfortunately for you," he went on briskly, "it's not enough. Your output is too low given your years of experience. I need more. The city needs more. I want you to get proactive about cases, I want you all to take a run at cold cases, I want these numbers higher, and I want all of this _fast_. Is that clear?"

_Scratch the tidal wave, Lord. Try a meteor. Maybe two. _

There were some nods and a certain amount of pallor before he turned his back on them and advanced on Juliet, speaking very quietly. "As for you, Detective, I'm calling your bluff."

"What bluff?"

"You make mistakes. Do you know how I know? Because we all make mistakes, even me. So what I'm going to be doing in the immediate future is studying every case you've worked on in the last seven years, and I'm going to find _and_ document _and_ catalog every single mistake in those files."

Juliet stared at him, as cold inside as the chill of his pale blue eyes.

"I'm going to establish that there's a clear pattern of carelessness, negligence and outright incompetence on your part, and before too long, you're going to be out on your pretty little ass. Most likely I won't even have to consult the files on the Psycho boys' cases, where I suspect the negligence is most prevalent." He smiled the most evil of all his smiles.

_If I throw up on you, would that be filed under careless, negligent or incompetent?_

He dropped his voice even more, but she didn't miss one word.

"I suppose you might be mildly curious as to the mistake _I _made, so I'll give you this freebie: I underestimated you. But then again, O'Hara, you've underestimated _me_. Because I never give up. And I never lose."

_Tidal wave _and_ meteor. Followed by a plague of exploding egg timers._

"Any questions?"

_Would you die?_

"No, _Interim_ Chief Trout. None at all."

The faint scowl—brief but unmistakable—was her one moment of satisfaction.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton was up early, anxious.

He'd tried to stay in bed longer, reliving his more-than-pleasant Wednesday night phone conversation with Juliet, who'd told him about that scum-sucking bastard Trout's threat, allowed him to soothe her, told him she appreciated him, told him to shut it when he objected, told him _again_ to shut it when he still objected, and then laughed at his inappropriate remarks about Trout and the lingering odor of rotting fish.

_You love her too much, you know._

_Bite me, skeptic._

But he couldn't stay in bed too long, because this morning there was an interview to prepare for. To obsess over, actually, because that was another skill of his, albeit not one he had specifically outlined in his resume.

The interview wasn't until eleven, but he wanted to drive around and familiarize himself with Santa Paula, as well as take an hour (or two) to convince himself it wasn't going to be a complete waste of everyone's time.

_Idiot. Just shut up and go._

Coffee first. Good coffee.

Jumpin' Java provided, and he headed out of the shop with a Large Large—only to be met by the object of his affections on her way in.

"Carlton!" she exclaimed, smiling in that way she had of making him feel like curling up at her feet.

"Juliet," he managed, in that way which probably always made him look like a goober.

Her face fell. "Oh. You have an interview today. You look really nice."

_Um…_

"It's not too short," she added with approval, reaching up to touch his hair.

Cardiac arrest. Standing, holding coffee, cardiac arrest in progress.

Then she frowned. "Dammit."

_Then_, to make it worse while he was still standing there dumbstruck like a complete mutton-headed imbecile, her lower lip trembled and she walked out again.

_Crap on a rotting fish._

He followed; she went as far as his car, which was at the curb a dozen yards away.

Turning to face him, arms tight around herself, she said in a rush, "I'm sorry. I am a total selfish bitch. Because I know you're going to get that job, Carlton, and I honestly don't want you to, and I don't even know which job it is. I don't want you to leave here. I don't want you to leave _me_. It's beyond immature and selfish but that's how I feel, and I don't know why you even want to know such a selfish, selfish bitch."

"Juliet, stop that crap right now." He felt both impatient and befuddled. "I haven't even had the interview yet. Don't be moving me out of town just yet."

"Oh, who are you kidding?" she protested. "No one's going to pass you up! You've got a fantastic arrest record, you have a commanding presence, and you even look damned good!"

"Would you—" He stopped, willed back the blush at those last few words, and went on firmly. "Listen to me. Okay? Listen. I don't want to leave Santa Barbara but I have got to get a job or I'll go off the deep end. You understand? And your support notwithstanding, no one else knows me as well as you do. No one else has any reason to give me as many chances—as many second chances—as you have. I've put people off over the phone, Juliet. You know damned well I can still do it in person."

She glowered at him, arms still tight around herself. And dammit, those lovely dark blue eyes were too misty.

"Look," he said more softly, standing as close as he dared. "Even if they offer me a job, who says I'll want it? Maybe I'll get over there and find out they're a bunch of tie-dye-wearing vegetarians who worship Jimmy Carter. You don't know. And I'm not _leaving_ you. There is no incentive strong enough to get me to leave my best friend."

The mistiness turned into a full-out tear, just one, and he couldn't help it; with his free hand he touched her warm face and brushed that tear away.

Fluttering, hell. Freaking earthquake.

Juliet managed a smile—and didn't shy away from his touch.

_So inexpressibly beautiful. _

"Well… would you mind if I put the word out for you around here?" She was still anxious. "There's probably a lot of agencies who'd love to have you on staff but don't think you'd be interested because maybe they're on a smaller scale. Would you let me do that? Because it's not just me who'd benefit by you staying in Santa Barbara. I'm just the most selfish one."

"Stop saying that," he pleaded. "Juliet, you don't know how much it means to me that you feel this way. No one has ever—I mean ever—made me feel so… so wanted."

Juliet abruptly looked fierce. "You _are_ wanted."

He touched her shoulder, unwilling to consider the other ramifications of her words. "If you can find someone around here who wants to take a chance on me, go ahead and hook me up. But in the meantime, you've got to stop worrying about this. Please."

Dropping his hand, he dug his car keys out of his pocket and waited for her to give him one solemn nod.

No more tears, he noted with relief. She wasn't smiling, but she was under control.

He stepped off the curb, keys in one hand, coffee in the other, and turned to tell her one more time not to worry.

However, he wasn't able to tell her anything, because as soon as he turned, her arms wound around his neck and she kissed him hard.

Carlton stumbled a little, against the car, but Juliet hung on and kept kissing him and he dropped his keys and put his arm around her to steady himself as much as her. He held on to the coffee by sheer force of habit, and kissed her back.

Just as on Saturday, she was all heat and scent and softness and need. He learned so much—so _fast_—about the shape of her mouth and the sensation of her tongue against his, and there was so much more he wanted to know. To taste.

To _love_.

He was able to say something to her, something guttural even he didn't understand, but she was undeterred, and her soft, soft, hungry mouth moved insistently against his.

Later, what he realized was that he'd never been plundered before. But that's what this was. Plundering. On a city street. Before breakfast. Before _coffee_.

_Holy crap. _

Juliet abruptly stepped away, hand to her mouth.

"Holy crap," he managed, out of breath and very possibly on fire.

She was flushed. She shoved her hair behind her ears and said almost crossly, "You'd _better_ call me tonight," and then she rapidly returned to the coffee shop, flinging the door open and disappearing inside.

Carlton stood immobilized for a bit, mind and senses reeling. He seriously considered going after her and simply _having_ her on one of those ridiculous tiny tables, but then they'd probably never sell him coffee again.

Finally he had the presence of mind to pick up his keys and more or less lurch around to the driver's side and get in. He drove several blocks without having a damned clue where he was even headed.

Oddly, it was a lot like not having a damned clue what was really going on with the utterly luscious woman who'd just… plundered him.

On a city street.

Before coffee.

_Damn. _

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	15. Chapter 15: More Of That Thinking Stuff

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN: More Of That Thinking Stuff**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

There was something wrong with her. There had to be.

She had just, for lack of a better word, _mauled_ Carlton on the sidewalk.

This wasn't like her—jealous and whiny and possessive in an inappropriate way—it wasn't like any version of her, and it had indubitably freaked him the hell out.

But dammit, he was just so… blue-eyed, focused, intense, delicious, and hers, dammit, he was _hers_ and she knew it and he knew it but if he went away someone else was going to snatch him up and this is what was wrong with her, because the truth was she had no idea how he really, truly—in his heart of hearts—felt or what he wanted.

And she, wanton idiot, had been out of a relationship for less than a week.

She was in the single most stressful period of her life and there was Carlton, a pillar, a rock, a cliché of There-For-Her-ness despite having let her know two weeks ago just how far she'd fallen away from herself.

Despite having his own issues… his own damage, some of it inflicted by Juliet.

Despite having every reason to run like hell from her, given how she'd abused his trust in the past.

Despite all of that.

Juliet rested her head against the steering wheel. She had stayed in the coffee shop until she was sure he was long gone, made it to her car with her own Large Large, and sat there, buckled up and trembling, torn between going to the station and trying to save her job and following him to wherever the hell he was headed and dragging him back to Santa Barbara.

Possibly to her bed.

No: _definitely_ to her bed, so she could peel off that well-cut suit and expose his lean strong body to her explorative touches and—

_Seriously. You've lost it._

"No," she murmured to the steering wheel.

_Yeah you have. Rebound. With a guy who not only deserves better, but might not even want more than to be your friend._

"It's not a rebound," she argued.

_Well, all he's actually _said_ is that he valued your partnership and friendship and he wasn't ever going to walk away from it, and okay he kissed you back but he's only a man and most men react like men when being mauled by women._

Okay, so the timing _was_ questionable. She didn't need any internal monologue to remind her of that. Shawn, Trout, extreme job stress, Carlton himself, Trout, the job, Shawn… Carlton. His eyes—and all they revealed in the shifting shades of blue.

And okay, yes, she'd avoided her awareness of Carlton and his feelings for years. To admit it to herself and want him _now_ said more about her jacked-up state of mind than anything else.

And okay, the fact that he was a stupendously masterful kisser could cloud any woman's judgment. That and the sensation of his heat and strength surrounding her… dammit. Dammit. _Dammit_.

_Can we go back to the part where you also admit that You. Have. Lost. It?_

"No," she sighed again, sitting up and staring at nothing out the windshield. She was pretty sure the opposite was true.

In fact, given how she was thinking about him and more importantly how she _felt_ when she was with him or even thought she was going to be with him or had just been with him, she was completely _certain_ the opposite was true.

She hadn't lost it at all.

She'd _found_ it.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Chief Alex Mancuso was an even-tempered and very tanned fellow, and Carlton would have come close to liking him if his entire brain was focused on the interview.

Ryan Allison, Mancuso's lieutenant in charge of the detectives' division, also seemed steady and non-excitable, and Carlton would have found him tolerable as well if he had even half of his attention on the proceedings.

The station was orderly and pleasantly Spartan, and the twenty percent of his head which wasn't still wrapped around Juliet O'Hara found it suitable as a potential workplace.

If only he'd been fully _there_.

Mancuso's office overlooked the street, and to the south rose the blue-gray mountains. The town was open and simple and Juliet could kiss him any damned time she wanted.

He knew he was being polite and answering questions properly and without excess ego. He was also properly circumspect about the nature of his decision to leave SBPD.

Mancuso said with great caution—and a hint of a smile—that he'd met Harris Trout at the Chiefs' conference.

This brought Carlton back into the same space-time continuum. "I heard," he said with equal care, "that there was some drama during his presentation."

Mancuso laughed. "Best damn show in town. I've been waiting to hear that your mayor canned his ass, but so far the grapevine's quiet."

Carlton allowed a smirk to show itself. "I doubt Swaggerty will give up the dream so quickly."

"Maybe not. Mayors do get attached to their ideas," he agreed dryly. "At any rate, it wasn't hard to see how working for Trout would be… challenging."

"More so when he wanted it to be." That was all he'd let himself be drawn into saying; he didn't know enough about Mancuso—and certainly not Allison—to take a chance on speaking entirely freely.

They gave him a tour and went over statistics and programs they hoped to get going in future, and Carlton let them buy his lunch and pick his brain about his own ideas for How Things Should Be Done.

He left there at two and headed back home and back in his condo he lay on the sofa and put every bit of that out of his head and let the memory of Juliet's kisses wash over him—rather, flood him.

As fried as his circuits had been (_and_ _still are, you wingnut: ARE_), he knew this was all leading to A Talk.

Which was just craparrific.

Because what she was going to say in The Talk would not be "take me to your den of iniquity" but rather "cut me some slack for being Trout-crazy and let's pretend it never happened. Twice."

On the one hand, the events so far—unsolicited but not in the least unwelcome—were a magical coming-to-life of many dreams (both waking and sleeping) he'd had about her, and he'd rather spend a day hand-feeding Spencer than have Juliet look him in the eye and say gently _I don't know what I was thinking; I certainly didn't mean anything by it and it won't _ever_ happen again_.

On the other hand, perhaps this was punishment for what he'd said two weeks ago. He'd hurt her, and now he was going to be left hurting too.

_Uh, Lassiter? That's unusually convoluted guilt-reasoning even for _you_._

But it made sense: the kisses were his moment of glory; the aftermath was the ashes which were always bound to follow. He hadn't had any kind of romantic success in his life, and Juliet, the Golden Ring—the Holy Grail—wasn't meant for a man like him.

_You're depressing me. Can we go over the kissing again? In fact, why don't you arrange to meet her tomorrow morning so maybe you can get another pre-interview send-off?_

"Asshat," he grumbled. She deserved better. She deserved everything.

Still… just one chance to hold her in his arms again and feel her magnificently delicious kisses and sighs and the pressure of her body against his… because if she was going to strike him down anyway, then—

_Knock it off, jerk, before you prove there's a reason 'ass' is built right into your name._

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Trout stayed in his office all morning, poring over case files Juliet knew without asking were hers. From time to time he looked up and at her through the blinds—which he'd left open—and smirked.

"Screw this," she muttered. She'd been working nonstop since she arrived (despite Carlton infiltrating her heart and mind and overloaded senses), and she needed a proper lunch break.

_Oh, admit it. You just want a private place to worry about how Carlton's interview is going. And maybe shop for a voodoo doll in the image of the police chief who intends to lure him away from Santa Barbara._

Juliet asked the persistent little voice one question to shut it up:_ And your point would be?_

Instead of walking to the closest café, she went a couple blocks farther to the Italian Clubhouse, intent on getting a panini and a side salad and perhaps returning to work and falling into a flavor-induced coma at her desk… _after_ breathing enough garlic on Trout to melt his stupid sneering face off.

Strolling rather than hurrying, letting the afternoon breeze soothe her jagged edges, she was half a block away when she saw Shawn.

He was with Gus, his back to her, out in front of the café. Gesticulating, he turned slightly to point to the sign, and that's when he spotted her.

Juliet knew instantly that no matter what he said, this was no coincidence. He knew she liked their meatball panini, which had long been Thursday's special. He was even wearing a shirt she'd told him she liked, and sunglasses she'd given him on his birthday.

Nonetheless, he gave her a wide, innocent smile. "Jules! Wow, what a coincidence!"

Lie? Check. She glanced past him at Gus. Nervous expression? Check.

"Hi, guys. Guess you knew I'd want my favorite panini."

Shawn had the nerve to feign memory loss. "What's that? Oh yeah—the meatball! No, I promise. We were just about to get some lunch ourselves. Right, Magic Head?"

Juliet looked at Gus fully, silently daring him to lie to her face.

Gus immediately glanced at his watch. "I actually can't stay. I have extra stops on my route this afternoon."

"Dude! No!" Shawn exclaimed in apparently sincere surprise. "We were going to build the pasta version of Devil's Tower!"

"Next time, dude." For about one second, he met Juliet's gaze, and she saw a flash of apology in his big brown Best Buddy In The World eyes.

She smiled sweetly. "Good to see you, Gus."

"Uh… you too, Jules." He made his usual rapid exit: nobody scampered like Burton Guster.

"So Jules, how about it?" Shawn's charm was on overdrive.

"How about what?" She folded her arms, not making a move to go inside.

"How about lunch? You used to like lunch. I've seen you eat. How about you get the lunch you were going to have, and I get the lunch I was going to have, only instead of having it at separate tables, we have it together. At the same table." Another innocent smile. "Here."

Juliet simply looked at him.

Sighing, Shawn took off his sunglasses. "Okay, you said I couldn't live with you and then you said we couldn't date. But you didn't say we couldn't even run into each other, and honestly even if you had I'm not sure I could have agreed to that. Santa Barbara's only got 90,000 people and we're bound to run into each other now and then."

"We are. But are you really asking me to believe it's just chance you're _here_? Today? At this time?"

He dropped the smile. "Are you asking me to believe you just stopped caring about me overnight?"

"No—dammit Shawn, that's not the point, and you need to stop—"

"I can't stop," he interrupted earnestly. "I can't give up on you. On us. On the best relationship I ever had."

That all-too-familiar coldness began to overtake her again. It was a beautifully warm sunny day, out on the bright colorful street in a town she knew by heart… and she was so cold.

"The problem," she began, keeping her tone as gentle as she could, "is that it wasn't the best relationship _I_ ever had."

He stepped in closer, hazel gaze intent. "You never gave me a chance."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm a challenging prospect, Jules. I know that. Hell, everyone knows that. So I deserve extra chances, because I'm worth it."

Funny how his arrogance was so different from Carlton's.

"How many extra chances do you think would do it?"

"More than you gave me," he shot back.

"How many times could you have bought groceries?"

"Dammit, would you forget about the groceries already? The groceries are ancient history!"

Juliet eyed him dispassionately. He was impatient with her, still so unclear on why they weren't together, and she was tired of trying to explain what he was more than intelligent enough to have understood the first time out.

After a few moments of her silence, he tried again. "You didn't answer my question. Am I supposed to believe you don't care about me anymore?"

_So cold. Nearly shivering._

But she could not lie to him, even now. "No. I will always care about you."

He relaxed, and ventured a smile. "So that's good, right?"

Good, maybe. Irrelevant, definitely. "I'm giving notice on the lease next week. I'll be putting the rest of your stuff into one room so you can come get it before I move out."

He protested immediately. "What? You can't let the house go. I love that house! That's _our_ house. You can't let some other people have it. They might not like pineapple. They might not like smoothies. My God, they might all be like Lassie!"

_The house should be so lucky. _

"If you want to live in the house, be my guest."

He nearly dropped to his knees. "Oh my God—I can move back in? Oh, sweetie—" He came at her as if to bestow a hug or kiss, and Juliet backed away rapidly.

"I meant," she elucidated from a safe distance, "that if you want to live there after I move out, let me know before next Friday. I'll get the landlord to take my name off the lease and you can keep living there."

Although there was little chance Gus could afford it along with his own rent.

Once again he seemed puzzled, and then annoyed, and then sad. "I don't get it, sweetie. Why are you doing this to us?"

She didn't even want lunch anymore. "I could ask you the same question, Shawn."

"_I _didn't break us up." He managed to keep rancor out of the words.

"But it's over. And now, when we should both be regrouping and figuring out what's next, you're once again refusing to honor my request for time and distance."

"Because it doesn't make sense to me! None of this makes sense to me. I love you, and I need you, and I know you love me."

_Stop telling me how I feel. _

"And it's over," she repeated, the cold crackling along her spine as it turned to ice. "And I don't intend to have this conversation with you again, Shawn, not any time soon. I need you to back off. I'm sorry I hurt you. I wish things had been different. But we're done, and you have to respect that before you cross a line and turn into a stalker."

His posture changed; he seemed to sink in on himself, and she felt more than a twinge of guilt. Shawn did love her. As much as a narcissist could love another person, he loved her and Gus and his father.

But she didn't want to keep telling him it was over. She didn't want every meeting—chance or orchestrated—to be like this. She didn't want to feel so damned cold every time she was face to face with the wrong road she'd been on.

"I want you to be happy," she whispered. "It just can't be with me."

While he stared at her in despair, she remembered words she'd overheard long ago. Shawn, speaking to Gus, thinking no one could hear… "_You think I don't want her to be happy? I want her to be happy. But serious Shawn moment here: I want to be happy too. For some reason, I can't imagine that happening without Juliet_."

Tears came to her eyes, tears for lost opportunities and misguided dreams, and she turned from him to go into the café, because there was nothing else to say and nothing else she would listen to.

**. . . . .**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_[Shawn quote from S5's "One, Maybe Two Ways Out."]_


	16. Chapter 16: Just Another Workday

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Just Another Workday**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"Blather blather smug blather. Gloat blather gloat. Blather sneer blather blather."

Juliet watched Trout without listening to him. She got the gist of it: he was pleased with having found sufficient (albeit microscopically insignificant) errors in her casework over the years, he was pleased that he could further paint both Carlton and Chief Vick as lazy slackers for not catching her mistakes, and once he included what was sure to be a treasure trove of her errors from the rest of the Psych cases, he'd be able to submit a full report to the mayor recommending her immediate termination.

"Gloat blather smirk-blather. _Blather_ gloat. Blather gloatsmuggery _blather_."

She was about to ask him why he'd bother submitting the report if there was so much proof of her incompetence; after all, he'd fired Buzz McNab without consulting anyone. But then she realized having the documentation would add legitimacy to his claims, legitimacy he needed after Carlton's unexpected resignation as well as Trout's own contretemps with Swagerty at the conference.

"Blatherbutt gloatface blather hnork?"

Juliet tried to focus on the pale cold fish in front of her.

"O'Hara! Blather-smirk sneer gaseous emission blather smugbuttocks blather?"

"Come again?" she inquired politely.

Trout glowered. "Get out. You have work to do and so do I."

Freedom, yes. Good stuff. Juliet returned to her desk, wondering why she didn't care more.

Of course she cared: but somehow today his petty little evil machinations weren't getting to her. Or maybe she was just so stressed that no one stress seemed particularly attention-worthy.

_Request leave._

Sinking into her chair, she let the words replay in her head.

_Request leave._

Trout couldn't stop her. Her job would be in limbo until she returned, because no department psychiatrist would dispute that she had good reason to request time off.

And time off… such a lovely simple set of words. Time _away_. Breathing room. Time to sort out her personal life (as if) and regain her equilibrium.

Carlton's call last night had been another rollercoaster. She'd tried to measure how scared she was about his job opportunity in Santa Paula. She knew him so well; she knew he was trying not to say much about it one way or the other because he didn't want her to freak out.

But was he neutral because he was neutral, or because he _liked_ the Santa Paula PD and didn't want to upset her? There was no doubt in her mind he'd be offered the job. His acerbic reputation aside, merely getting the interview in the first place meant they were more interested in his skill set than his personality.

She'd also tried to measure how much she was glad to be talking to _him_ against how much she was glad to be talking to an adult who wasn't actively trying to screw with her in some manner.

Epiphanies in the car aside, her addle-pated heart was tumbling around much too fast for anyone's good. Her hormones were like cheerleaders gone mad, her brain was the referee with the freakishly loud whistle, and no matter what, she must not hurt Carlton.

Because Carlton was someone she needed. Romantic, lustful feelings had to be put aside while she absorbed the full extent of those words: she _needed_ him in her life. In some form, in some way, this man had to be in her life. Hurting him would drive him away, and 'away' was a four-letter word.

Dammit, there was so much to figure out.

_Request leave._

No. Right now, it would seem cowardly, no matter how much she might need it, and there was no telling how Trout could spin her personal leave to bolster the case for firing her. She would stay the course.

Dobson came to her desk; they were going to talk to a shop-owner about some suspicious activity associated with her store.

_Think of _this_ as leave_, she advised herself. _Just getting out of Trout-infested waters for an hour will be nice._

In the Crown Vic, Dobson asked her diffidently how it was going.

"He still wants me out," she said matter-of-factly.

"Why?"

"Probably because I represent the old guard." Odd to think of herself as the 'old guard' at the age of thirty-two, especially since she'd only been with the SBPD for eight years.

He snorted. "You mean someone who'll challenge him."

She shrugged.

"You think he's gonna stick around here?"

"Once all the challenges are removed? I doubt it. He hasn't stayed anywhere very long."

"Maybe he got run out every time."

Juliet looked at him skeptically. "We'd have heard about that."

"Well, dig in your heels," he said fiercely. "Bad enough he got Vick and Lassiter. You're our last hope."

She patted his arm. "I'm not going down easy. He's going to have to really work for it."

"Seems like the kind of guy who would," he grumbled.

Yeah, he did. And he _was_. "So what's up with this shop owner?" She'd let him run the specs on the initial report.

"Morrell, Donna. Runs the scrapbook place near the south end of the mall. It's a standalone building, and two of the subjects in active missing persons cases were last seen there. Also, employees of the mall have heard strange sounds there at night."

"Are we the first to take a look? Or has a patrol unit been out?"

Dobson grinned. "I thought we should check on this one personally. The mall security officer who reported it is Buzz McNab."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

He wasn't so sure he was a good fit with Ray Kiser, Chief of the Ventura PD.

Guy was too much like him, for one thing. Steely-eyed, humorless, fixated on his job.

_You are not humorless_, Juliet chided him in his head.

Well, he _was_ steely-eyed. He'd heard it enough over the years, and not usually as a compliment.

Kiser was direct, business-like, and succinct. He made brief mention of Carlton's excellent arrest record and profiling skills, one blunt comment about Trout being a dickhead, a disparaging remark about "that idiot psychic," and was uninterested in finding out the whys of Carlton's demotion and resignation.

He just wanted to get down to the business of solving crime, and that should have been a plus.

It should have been even more of a plus after years of Spencer-related chaos. As much as he respected Karen Vick, she'd let the gelhead have a little too much free rein (beyond the free rein Spencer simply _took_) for his tastes.

Admittedly, his tolerance for Spencer was considerably lower than the statistical norm.

However… time-wasting, narcissistic tendencies of the pineapple-swilling whackaloon notwithstanding, Carlton had to acknowledge there was a place for… he took a mental breath… open-mindedness.

Open-mindedness (or the best _he_ could approximate, anyway) had helped him solve the damned shark case a few years back, and even led him to find some measure of happiness—if briefly—with Marlowe.

But Ray Kiser didn't seem to have any open-mindedness. Maybe he was amping up the business-like demeanor because it was an interview, or because he knew Carlton's reputation; either way, he was a lot more rigid than Carlton liked.

_Dear God, maybe I've mellowed._

He drew himself up sharply: there was no need for that kind of crazy-ass thinking.

Crazy-ass thinking should be reserved for his ponderings about Juliet. Making that phone call last night had been terrifying, trying to anticipate how long into the conversation she'd go before breaking his heart with kind and reasonable words. But she hadn't said a thing about the kiss, or hinted in any way that she wanted to discuss it or what the hell was going on.

He knew she had to be thinking about it. Women Thought About Things. They Thought About Things a lot and he would have to bide his time. It wasn't as if kissing her was holding him back from anything: he had no expectations of a happy ending, and he still believed that either one of these jobs, if offered, would not stand in the way of a concerted joint effort to remain friends… or whatever else she was willing to let them be.

The dreams, he couldn't stop. He loved her; he'd loved her for years; he would always love her. Even when he was with Marlowe, Juliet was never really in the background. He'd accepted she was unattainable, and Marlowe was sweet and honest and cared about him and he would have been the best man he could be for her.

_Stop wool-gathering. People are talking to you._

Kiser introduced him to a slew of upper-level staff and laid out the organizational chart, sent him off for a tour with various commanders, and met with him again before they finished up.

Somewhere over those two hours, Carlton realized he didn't want to work there. He couldn't pinpoint why exactly: the staff seemed competent and experienced and he could stand a few new challenges. But Ventura wasn't for him.

Before he left, Kiser shook his hand firmly and said they'd be in touch next week. He added gruffly that he hoped Santa Barbara's loss would be Ventura's gain.

Carlton drove home in an all-too-familiar fog. When he got home, he might just open up the Scotch and wallow in his own miasma of uncertainty, insecurity and longings for Juliet.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"What in _THE_ hell happened out there?" Trout barked. He paced around to stand by the windows in the conference room, fuming enough to be giving off smoke.

Over his shoulder, Juliet could see media vans and assorted reporters already gathering in the parking lot, clamoring for statements.

_Do not smile._

She glanced at Dobson, sending a silent message for him to maintain his stoic expression.

"I'm waiting," Trout spat.

"We met with Officer McNab at the mall security office and he brought us up to speed on his observations. He said—"

"Let _him_ tell what he said!"

McNab cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable to be in the presence of the man who fired him a few months ago. In his gray security uniform, and accompanied by his supervisor Sam Beckett, he almost looked like a prisoner. Granted, a six-foot-five prisoner who could snap the warden in two, but a prisoner nonetheless.

"The Scrapbooking Queen is a standalone store at the south end of the mall. On my evening patrols I've heard some odd sounds from the back of the building, and I started paying attention to what went on there."

Beckett nodded. "With my approval, of course."

Trout ignored him. "What kinds of noises?"

"Um… people noises. Voices."

"Very alarming," Trout said acidly.

"After midnight, sir."

"And?"

"This is the kind of diligence we like from our officers," Beckett intervened.

"_And_?" Trout pressed, still ignoring Beckett.

Buzz shifted nervously. "I started watching the security footage. They don't have their own system, but some of our cameras point that way so I focused on the back lot and saw people being taken in who didn't look like they wanted to be taken in."

"Reluctant scrapbookers?" Trout flung himself into a chair. "Get on with it."

"Some of them matched the descriptions of some missing persons on file with the SBPD."

"What business is it of yours which missing persons we have on file?"

Juliet intervened when Buzz looked shocked. "Missing persons are a matter of public record."

"Mall security staff stay apprised of missing persons as a matter of routine," Beckett added. "With as many visitors as we get—"

Trout cut him off, still eyeing Buzz. "And _then what_?"

"When I was sure there was something hinky going on, I reported it to the police."

"Dobson and I went out this morning and—"

"No. I want to hear it from Dobson."

Juliet sighed.

Dobson picked up the torch. "We questioned the owner, Donna Morrell, who was squirrelly as all get-out. I stayed in the store and Detective O'Hara went around the back with McNab. She radioed me after a few minutes and called for backup, and that's when everything blew up."

"Nothing blew up," Juliet amended hastily, and this time Trout let her talk. "McNab and I observed a broken window near the southwest corner of the building and when we went closer, we could see someone reaching up to push the glass out."

"And then a kitten," Buzz said, grinning like a little kid.

"Come again?" Trout wasn't happy. He looked as if he was beginning to understand this wasn't his day after all.

"A kitten. Then two more. Detective O'Hara started talking to whoever was inside and it turned out the voices I'd heard belonged to people Donna Morrell was holding prisoner in her shop."

Trout's glare was white hot. "What. People."

Dobson smiled smoothly. "One teenaged runaway, an orphan from Orange County, and Sister Mary Louisa from the Poor Clares convent. Also three kittens, two ducklings, a box with four hamsters and a stolen shipment of scrapbook decals."

_Careful, Trout; your face might freeze in that constipated expression._

"They'd been held captive for a week in a room at the back of the store. They said Morrell planned to sell them into the sex trade so she could keep the business going."

"What. In God's name. Was the reason for the kittens and hamsters?"

"To keep them company," Buzz offered. "Donna Morrell's only an evil kidnapper on the inside."

_Oh, Buzz_. Juliet went on quickly, "They'd been working on getting free from the cage Morrell locked them in, and at the time we arrived, had just been able to get to the window and break it. Their plan was to release the animals first."

"Nuns. Always so damn selfless," Trout muttered. "I suppose I should ask how the nun and orphan and runaway are?"

"Shaken, underfed and in a state of shock, but otherwise unharmed."

"Good." He started to get up, but noted Dobson's raised hand. "What?"

"Morrell had an accomplice. Bernie Lomax. He showed up before backup arrived, and started taking shots at us."

Trout sank back into the chair. "Swell."

"He got hold of the orphan and tried to use her as a shield, especially after some other store customers came around to see what was going on."

"We did our best to hold them back," Beckett said. "But you know how crowds are."

Again, Trout had no interest in Beckett. To Dobson, he snapped, "Outcome?"

"Detective O'Hara talked the guy down."

Buzz was grinning again. "She's the best, Chief Trout. She got the guy to release the orphan, drop his weapon, and admit he masterminded the whole thing."

Juliet could almost hear Trout's string of silent curses.

Very, very mildly, Dobson added, "The crowd went wild."

They had, sort of. Juliet hadn't been paying attention to them so much as the man with the gun pointed at the child—a child who'd been through quite enough already—and when the applause started it took her a while to understand it was for her.

Trout looked at her, devoid of expression. "Bravo, O'Hara."

It might as well have been 'see you in hell,' but she didn't care. She'd done her job today and she would have done it even if no one was there to see it at all. She and Dobson and McNab had worked in tandem to right a wrong, and that was the reason she came to work every day.

To Trout, she said nothing. She owed him no thanks, no explanation, no polite words.

But if she _had_ spoken, she would simply have asked him, "Still think I'm going down without a fight?"

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton watched the segment on the evening news a dozen times, grinning all the while.

Juliet saved a nun, a runaway, an orphan, kittens, ducklings and hamsters; she talked a gunman into releasing his hostage _and_ surrendering peacefully, and Trout's expression when the reporters demanded a statement was akin to that of a man who had just learned that chagrin tastes a lot like dead-fish-flavored dirt.

He picked up his phone and after her breathless hello, he asked, "Are you the best damned cop in the world or what?"

Juliet laughed delightedly. "No, _you_ are, but I think I came close today!"

"My God, woman, if even half of what I just heard on the news is accurate, you'll be Chief before you're forty."

"I am _never_ turning forty," she shot back, but ruined the effect by laughing. "The thing is, I didn't really think anything about what happened until I realized what effect it had on Trout."

"Oh yeah," he agreed with satisfaction. "No way can he fire you now on any trumped-up claims of clerical errors. You're a freaking hero."

She'd looked good on camera too, flushed and pretty while maintaining her professional _I was just doing my job_ demeanor.

"If I am, then so is Buzz," she said. "That was really the icing on the cake. Having the guy he wrongfully terminated be the one who brought this case to the police in the first place? Wow."

"Amen. Damn, I wish I'd been there in the crowd."

"You were." She paused. "You kind of always are now. I can hear you telling me what to do."

Carlton was still a moment. "I hope I don't sound too bossy."

With amusement, she assured him he didn't. "I usually listen except when you tell me to knee Trout in the groin because I don't think that'd work out for me professionally."

"Plus you'd have to get your knee decontaminated. You know…" He hesitated while she laughed, but if she could say it, so could he. "I hear you in my head sometimes too. You're usually telling me to shut up."

She was also silent a moment. "If it's when you're putting yourself down or refusing to accept gratitude, then you _need_ to be told to shut up."

He surprised himself by agreeing with her.

"How was your interview today?"

"Okay. I don't think it's the right place for me."

"Why not?"

"They're too much like me. Or at least the top guys are."

"Um… what, they're good at their jobs, no-nonsense, highly skilled, and crack shots?"

"No, I mean they're hard-line, humorless pains in the ass—"

"Humorless? Please. You're very funny. You've certainly made _me_ laugh lately when no one else could."

"You're biased," he said gently. "My point is, I need a place with a little sunshine in it. All these years with you, I learned I need…" He swallowed. "People like you. To take the edge off me."

"Oh…"

He couldn't stop himself. "Or maybe I just need you."

Juliet took a breath he could clearly hear over the phone. "I'm okay with that."

His heart pounded in his chest.

She went on rapidly, "Will you meet me tomorrow morning?"

Crap. Time for The Talk.

"For coffee, maybe. Or brunch? Or, I know, there's a pastry cart in the park near my house. Can you meet me?"

"Of course."

She was pleased.

He was vaguely sick.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The adrenalin of the day combined with her certainty about being a complete mess otherwise combined to ensure Juliet got very little sleep.

She kind of knew what she had to do, and she kind of knew how to get there, and she kind of knew how to… manage… the situation with Carlton.

Shawn kept pushing into her brain as well. She had no doubts about her decision, but she did have doubts he would honor it. He'd yet to honor anything she asked him, and she quizzed herself as to what she was really prepared to do if he pushed it.

Maybe she needed to talk to Gus and Henry to make them understand she was serious about Shawn letting her be. She'd have to see him when he came to pick up his stuff, and of course he would argue about what was his, hers or theirs, and it would be a big production just like the last time she asked him to leave. _Note to self: hide the Froot Loops._

Then in the next second she was thinking about Carlton again.

About the husky quality of his voice when he said _"Or maybe I just need _you_."_

It was a huge admission, and even if he backpedaled and claimed he was talking about friendship and partnership, she _knew_. And that was his way of saying he knew she knew, right?

Unless she was sliding into early senility.

Which was possible.

_You've taken on ending your relationship with Shawn and you've stood your ground with Trout. You can jump in the ring on this Carlton deal too. _

Come morning, showered and dressed in her best casual jeans and a gray-blue top she knew accentuated her eyes, she headed out into the day utterly delighted—despite lack of sleep and sense—to be seeing Carlton.

Her phone's voicemail was full of messages from reporters (and several from Shawn) and she had ignored them all so far. Standing with Trout yesterday during the impromptu press conference was all she was willing to do: she wanted no more credit for her role in the downfall of Donna Morrell and her sidekick.

All of this faded away when she found Carlton, sitting on a bench near the designated tree. He had one arm across the back of the bench and was looking out across the green park, the sun playing across his face and highlighting the silver strands in his hair.

She could have claimed the far end of the bench but instead she sat directly next to him, close enough to feel his body heat and want his arm around her.

His startled blue eyes took her in, and he smiled—and didn't move away. "Good morning." He smelled good, and she hoped he thought the same of her.

"Hi." She smiled back, and knew this was the right thing to do. "I need to explain a few things."

Carlton tensed, just a little, but when she took his free hand where it lay in his lap, he clasped it firmly as if holding hands with her was perfectly normal. "Okay."

_Yeah, he thinks he knows what's coming._

"You already know this has been a pretty hard summer for me. Particularly the last few weeks."

He nodded.

"And you know it's not over yet. I have this feeling Trout's either going to make his move first thing Monday, or let things stay in limbo for awhile until he comes up with a new plan. But I can't just let time pass. I have to be ready for him all the time."

Carlton nodded again, the blue of those lit-from-within eyes changing as he tried to anticipate her next words. His hand was warm and his long fingers moved slightly against her skin.

"I need to pack up the house and find a new place and move in, and I have to try to figure out how to handle Shawn if he won't let things alone."

Now he scowled, muttering that he'd be standing by with a two-by-four if necessary.

"You've been my greatest supporter for a long time, Carlton, and in the past few weeks you've been so much more."

His hand tightened around hers, and for a few moments he looked down, dusky lashes obscuring the blue… hiding at least briefly.

But she couldn't let him hide from her anymore. "I need a favor, and then I have a question."

"Name it," he said at once.

"Would you let me kiss you again?" She registered the shock—and silent _yes_—in his eyes. "This time without drama, without me being pissed off and irrational or acting like a jealous loon?"

_Because I really want to kiss you apart from also really needing… to _know_. _

…_like I don't already know._

"Juliet," he whispered. "Are you sure?"

In response, she tilted her face to him, and after a few seconds of shimmering silence, Carlton leaned in and kissed her without further question.

His arm encircled her and she pressed against his chest, letting go of his hand only so she could slide hers into his soft hair. He sighed against her mouth, and it was the sweetest kiss she'd ever known. Full of love—full of _his heart_—and full of her own certainties that this was _the man_, it was a kiss of both exploration and acknowledgement.

Warm lips, delicious tongue tempting hers, their bodies closer and closer on the bench; Carlton wrapped both arms around her and allowed her to drape one leg over his… if they kissed any more deeply, at least one of them would be naked before long.

Drawing back, heart raging, she rested her head in the crook of his neck. Carlton murmured her name and held her close, and for a few minutes they just nestled together.

This was the most gloriously peaceful and _right_ moment of her life.

After awhile, she sat up and put a few inches between them, mostly for her own composure. Carlton's lean face was flushed—she knew hers was too—and his blue, blue eyes were a mixture of emotions jumbled together.

"Now," she managed, "the question."

He returned his arm to the back of the bench, pulling in on himself a little.

"As selfish as I've been recently—"

"Please stop saying that."

Juliet studied his regretful expression. "Not yet. I _have_ been selfish, drawing on you for strength and direction when—"

"It's what friends are supposed to do, Juliet. Maybe you never got it from Spencer but it's what friends _do_."

He was right, she reflected. Shawn had seldom shown her any kind of emotional support simply because she needed it. It was always built around what he could get out of it later.

"Still," she said quietly. "Practically attacking you in your condo, and then on the street, and never explaining what was going on with me—that was wrong."

"Juliet, stop." He was earnest. "You've had a lot of very good reasons to—"

_Dive in. _

"I'm really attracted to you, Carlton."

His eyes widened—but her intuition assured her he was only surprised she'd _said_ it.

"But I know I need time. Time to get through all this other mess and figure out what's permanent and what's temporary and what's going to be left when it's all settled up."

Carlton wasn't even breathing.

"I want you to be permanent," she whispered. "So my question—my unbelievably selfish question—is will you wait for me?"

He seemed frozen.

Juliet reached out and took his hand, rubbing his warm skin gently. "I won't hold it against you if the answer's no. You don't owe me anything and I'm only making assumptions about… us, but…"

Carlton found his voice. "I owe you everything."

It was husky but fierce.

"And dammit, Juliet, I will wait as long as you want."

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	17. Chapter 17: Sea Change

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Sea Change**

**. . . .**

**. . . **

_(I don't usually quote lyrics but I couldn't resist here; credits at the end.)_

**. . . .**

**. . .**

There was a song.

Carlton had heard it many times and once or twice thought it might apply to him—if he lived in a world of rainbows and unicorns where miracles occurred and bluebirds sang and he didn't slip into a sugar coma and die an early death. But mostly he didn't think about it much until he heard it again Saturday night.

_And I'll kneel down; wait for now  
And I'll kneel down; know my ground  
And I will wait, I will wait for you… _

_So break my step, and relent.  
Well, you forgave, and I won't forget.  
Know what we've seen, and him with less—  
Now in some way shake the excess.  
And I will wait, I will wait for you…._

He played it again, and then once more.

_And him with less_. That was the bit stuck in his head now. The waiting, he was used to. Gratitude for her forgiveness, he had in spades.

But '_and him with less… now in some way, shake the excess_'… that was Spencer. He had been all excess, and now he had lost Juliet because of it.

Carlton didn't have the least desire to gloat over Spencer's loss. He knew too well the true value of a woman like Juliet, and no man who lost her deserved anything but sympathy. Preferably at a safe distance where Spencer was concerned.

As for him, he _did_ know his ground, and he _would_ wait for Juliet. Forever, if she asked.

She could still change her mind. He accepted that even as he stood at his patio door looking up into the starry night sky, hoping like a fool for the ultimate prize, one he knew he didn't deserve and—should she choose to bestow it—would forever treat like a precious gem, or better, the most fragile of flowers.

"Hell yeah, I'll wait for you," he murmured, feeling a shiver down his spine as he remembered the kiss, and her touch, and her words.

She'd kissed him once more before they parted, admitting somewhat regretfully that she probably wouldn't be kissing him again for a while if she was going to really use the time she was asking for to its greatest advantage.

"But I want to see you and talk to you, every day. You're still my friend, and I need you. I just won't be…" she hesitated, smiling. "Mauling you."

He understood that, assured her it wasn't mauling if the maulee was mauling the mauler in return, and eventually they found their way to the promised pastry cart and back to some sort of normal place.

_Normal_. Carlton shook his head at the night sky. No such thing.

But crazy had its merits.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The Sunday paper had a follow-up article about Juliet's successes on Friday. Trout had no comment beyond a bland "The SBPD does its best," but Juliet was quoted as saying she shared all the credit with her colleagues Dobson and McNab, and volunteered that without the guidance of former Head Detective Lassiter, she probably wouldn't be half the cop she was.

He didn't know if that was true: even at 24, she'd brought a hell of a lot of natural skills to Santa Barbara, but he appreciated her saying so, and sent a text to tell her.

She immediately called him, surrounding him even at this distance with her warmth , letting him bask in her Juliet-ness whether she knew it or not.

He didn't suggest meeting, because he was going to let her call the shots on how she wanted to spend the time she'd asked for.

But she asked if he would come over later and help her put some boxes together so she could start packing up, and he said yes. She didn't have to give notice for another week but wanted to get a head start, particularly on packing up Shawn's belongings.

_Do I _want_ to touch anything of his?_

_Shake it off_, he advised himself. This was about being the friend she needed.

He was nearly ready to go over there when Henry Spencer called.

"Congratulations," Henry said with that persistent _knowing_ cadence.

"On what?"

"You and Juliet obviously kissed and made up."

_Whoa_. "Come again?" he asked tersely.

Henry laughed. "Hey, I read the paper too."

"So?"

"So she's crediting you on a bust you weren't even involved in! Now, that _could_ be just to get at Trout, but more likely, you kissed and made up."

"Henry, stop using that expression."

He laughed again. "It's a good one, isn't it? So you worked it out?"

"Yes. We did." But he wasn't about to say more, no matter how well-meaning Henry was at his core. "How's Spawn doing?"

"You know, it's been eight years. You're going to have to learn to say his name someday."

"I thought that _was_ his name. Didn't I hear about a little birth certificate typo? The 'h' and the 'p' _are_ pretty close on the keyboard."

"No they're not, _Assiter_, and to answer your question, I think he's starting to come out of it a little. He actually looked at the apartment ads this morning, and he says all he wants to eat from now on is salad."

"Salad?"

"Yeah, he said he dreamed you hired a plane called the Lawson Express to drop a giant burrito bomb on him and he had to eat his way out." He added in a mumble, "Should have gotten him therapy a long time ago."

Carlton laughed, because okay, it was funny, but he was nonetheless relieved to hear Junior was emerging from the murk. "Is he going to leave Juliet alone?"

Father of Spawn hesitated. "I'd like to think so. I know he's been trying to call her. He's not going to just stop loving her, and he's not good at letting go of what's important to him."

"You could say that about a lot of people, but in his case, the line between not letting go and turning into a stalker is pretty blurry."

"He's not going to stalk her."

"Because she's not going to _let_ him."

"Neither are you, I'd wager. And I'm not just saying that because I know you kissed and made up."

"Henry."

Henry cackled. "Look, I feel for my boy but Juliet deserves some happiness too, and I'll deny I ever said this but so do you. Silver linings and all that. I want _someone's_ storm clouds to clear off, and no reason they can't be yours and Juliet's."

Carlton sighed.

"Plus you probably kissed and made up _really_ well—"

He disconnected.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Trout was unusually trouty on Monday morning.

Juliet kept an eye on him. He paced his office from time to time. He didn't take phone calls, he allowed only a few to enter his den, and his scowl rivaled one of Carlton's on a day without coffee.

_Carlton_, she thought with a smile.

On Sunday, he helped her put dozens of packing boxes together, and although he had to be coaxed, he did gingerly help her pack up the rest of Shawn's clothes and DVDs and stack the boxes in the master bedroom.

Efficient and quiet, he did as she asked and then some, and she felt a sense of progress not just in the end of the Shawn Era but in the beginning… the enhancement?... of the Carlton Era. She knew, waiting be damned, that he would be at her side so long as she lived.

She made sandwiches and popcorn for dinner and wanted to kiss him again—a lot—but held true (for now) to her goal. Time. She knew she had to have it and she knew he wanted her to have it.

It would help if his eyes weren't so utterly mesmerizing, but she doubted he'd go so far as to wear sunglasses in her presence. She settled for hugging him before he went home, and carried the warmth of his embrace to bed with her and even to work this morning.

Where Trout prowled.

_He's ready to act, but he has to wait. What is he waiting for? _

Her phone buzzed with a text.

Surprisingly, it was from Karen Vick.

_Can you come to my house right now?_

Instantly she wondered what was wrong. Yes, she texted back, asking what was up.

Karen only answered: _I'll give you coffee and cookies. Hurry._

Interesting.

She was surrounded by paperwork from the Morrell and Lomax case, but she abandoned it all without a look back, because if the Chief—the _real_ Chief—was asking to see her, it was important, and Trout could go trout himself.

The tree-lined neighborhood and the comforting solidarity of the Chief's house—along with the promise of coffee she knew would be very very good—should have settled her nerves.

Even the smile on Karen Vick's face as she let her in should have settled her nerves.

But… no… a check of her systems revealed not one nerve was settled.

"What is it?" she asked without preamble. "What can I do?"

"Just have a seat, Juliet." She led them into the bright open living room and gestured to the sofa. On the coffee table, coffee mugs and a full pot were already in view, next to the promised plate of cookies.

Several mugs, she noted. Someone else was coming.

Karen poured her a cup, poured one for herself, made Juliet take a cookie, and checked her watch. She seemed at ease but simultaneously alert.

Juliet sipped obligingly—she was right about how good it would be. Cops only made bad coffee at work; at home it was nothing but the best. The cookie was homemade chocolate chip, about which Karen said only that Iris helped.

The doorbell rang and she got up to answer it, telling Juliet to stay put.

"Karen," said an immediately and blessedly familiar voice. "What's going on? I saw Juliet's car—"

Karen must have shushed him, because he was quiet when she ushered him firmly into the room. "Just sit down, Carlton."

His blue gaze was part puzzlement, part consternation; he raked Juliet over as if to be sure she was all right, and she gave him a smile meant to reassure him even though she had no idea what was going on either.

With a headshake, Karen handed him a mug, and settled down into her own chair while he sat beside Juliet (a little too close; not close enough).

"Are you both all right?" she asked cautiously.

Juliet looked at Carlton as he looked at her. She was pretty sure she knew what Karen was asking, but did that mean she'd talked to Carlton too?

Carlton, tensing a little, answered for both of them. "We've worked out our… disagreement, if that's what you mean."

So she _had_ talked to him. He never mentioned that when he told her about running into Karen at the shooting range. However, she had to admit, she certainly hadn't told him about Karen 'counseling' _her_ after their meeting on the street two weeks ago.

"Good." Karen seemed pleased. "Your… unique connection is one I'd have hated to think was broken beyond repair."

"I think it's beyond being broken," Juliet said quietly, and heard Carlton's intake of breath. _Well, it was true. They couldn't be broken now._ "However, just so you're aware, I did break it off with Shawn."

Karen nodded. "I won't lie, Juliet: I'm glad to hear that."

Carlton muttered something affirmative, and Juliet couldn't even be annoyed.

Straightening up, Karen became brisk. "After I ran into you last weekend," she said to Carlton, "I told myself I should stay out of it. I should let Trout run his course and then I'd come back and put things right. But the more I thought about it, the more I knew I had to do something now."

"Because you wondered what you'd be coming back to," he said reflectively.

"Apart from the injustice of what Trout was doing? Yes. And as it turns out, I did have one card to play. My husband and I are good friends with Don Schanke, who roomed with Mayor Swagerty in college. We asked him and his wife to dinner last week and I put a few bugs in his ear. Well," she amended with a smile, "maybe it was a whole box."

_Maybe it was several boxes_, Juliet thought, judging by the near-smirk on Karen Vick's face. She glanced at Carlton, and his matching mild smirk confirmed her theory.

"Then," she continued, "and I'm sure you heard about this, the grapevine being what it is, there was an… incident at the police chiefs' conference."

"The grapes were particularly fertile," Juliet said. "Especially from the Patricia Allen Winery."

Chief Vick chuckled. "Bless her, she's better than the public library. Anyway, I'll let him tell the rest."

She gestured back toward the entrance hall—and there stood Tom Swagerty.

Hands in his pockets, jacket undone, brown eyes as direct as Karen's, he stepped fully into the room. "Detectives. Pardon the ambush, but this seemed like the most discreet place to have a little chat."

Juliet was agog, and beside her Carlton was still tense. He had no particular reason to think a meeting with Swagerty was a good thing.

"Mayor," she said faintly, as she and Carlton both started to get up; but he waved them back down and took the chair next to Karen's, accepting the fourth mug and biting into a cookie before he even took a sip.

"Very nice work, Chief." He was grinning.

"Thank you, Mayor."

"What is this about?" Carlton asked bluntly.

"It's about the cocky new mayor screwing up," Swagerty answered at once, and just as bluntly. "I thought my City Council experience and the common sense God gave a gnat was all I needed to run a city, and I was wrong."

Before any of them could offer even token protest, he went on.

"When I came into office, under the shadow of Channing's murder, I knew that one department I wanted to take a closer look at was the police." He tilted his head toward Karen. "No offense, but my run-ins with that Shawn Spencer ass—even if he did break the case open—suggested that there were things going on at the SBPD which maybe needed a fresh set of eyes."

Indeed, Karen did not seem offended. "I've concentrated on the _results_ of his work, but I'm well aware there've been a lot of questions about Spencer over the years. Some of them mine."

He chuckled. "Anyway, Trout came highly recommended, and I sent him in with every expectation that he'd get to the heart of what were no doubt minor problems in a minimum of time and that'd be that." He set his mug down. "Instead, he brought me reports of complete mayhem and suddenly my Chief of Police was suspended for six months."

"Because he's a lunatic," Carlton snapped, and Juliet put her hand on his arm to stay him. He glanced at her—the anger immediately fading from the blue—and said no more.

Swagerty only nodded. "I see that _now_. At the time, I thought maybe Channing had simply been unaware of serious problems in the department, what with his time being taken up by constant philandering and all."

The words were delivered dryly, but Juliet hadn't forgotten that Channing killed Swagerty's fiancée. Whether or not Swagerty knew about her infidelity before she died, it certainly couldn't be something he took comfort from.

"So time passes. I heard that you resigned," he said to Carlton. "And while I already knew you were a pain in the ass, I never heard even one whisper that you were incompetent or unstable or anything but a credit to the city."

Carlton stiffened his spine. "If there were anything to hear, Karen would have fired me a long time ago."

"I'm sure."

Beside him, Karen nodded—and smiled slightly.

"So it struck me odd that you quit. Struck me odder that the district attorney called me up the next day to suggest I try to get you back on staff. I mean, I know _he_ doesn't like you."

"The feeling's mutual," Carlton muttered.

Swagerty grinned. "It got my attention enough to make me put an internal hold on your retirement papers. Figured I'd give you time to change your mind while I figured out what was going on—especially since the _next_ odd thing was finding out Trout replaced you with the capable Detective O'Hara here. I had to wonder why it took him two months to make that decision." He looked fully at Juliet. "I asked him. He said there were issues with your performance."

Now Juliet stiffened _her_ spine. "I have to dispute that."

"So do I," Karen interjected.

"And even if it were true—" Carlton added hotly, "which it's _not_—Trout never communicated that to her in those two months."

It was a _little_ true, Juliet had to admit. It was at the very heart of what Carlton said to her That Day. But even at her worst, she was hardly a bad cop, and damn Trout for suggesting otherwise to anyone.

Swagerty was unfazed. "Nonetheless, I took him at his word. Then…" He picked up the mug and took a few more sips, as if steeling himself. "Then came the police chiefs' conference."

"They heard." Karen sent Juliet and Carlton a warning glance which Juliet took to mean _don't offer commentary_.

"Son of a bitch trashed the whole city. Not just me. Not just the SBPD. But the whole damn city." He shook his head, marveling and clearly still pissed off. "Talk about blindsided. I sent him home to cool his jets while I tried to figure out what to do. It didn't help that the police chiefs of Santa Paula and Ventura were ragging on me about trying to get Lassiter here on staff. After Trout's little personality show, they figured luring you out of town would be easy as pie."

"A man has to work, Mayor. Sanity among supervisors is always a plus." Carlton nodded at Karen, who shook her head in amusement.

"I hear that. I didn't like hearing it from them, however. Anyway, when I got home, my first call was from my old college buddy Don Schanke. Don wants to have lunch, he says, or maybe dinner, or maybe just ten minutes in the back seat of a limo for a little talk." He gave Karen a Look. "That was _her_ work."

"Yes it was." She seemed quite proud of herself. "It's not like you were going to take a call from _me_."

"I might have, after the conference debacle. It certainly primed me for what Don had to say, but I was still unsure how to handle it. You gotta know how bad it'll look for me to cut ties with Trout."

Carlton said flatly, "It'll look worse if there's nothing left of the SBPD when he's gone."

"Yeah, Detective. I get that. It's why I'm here." His momentary irritation faded. "Along comes Friday and the arrest of the century—kudos to you, Detective O'Hara—and when I get back from an afternoon meeting I discover that during the lunch hour, Trout had a courier bring over a sealed packet recommending your immediate dismissal."

"Son of a _bitch_," she heard, and it was Carlton who said it, echoed by Karen Vick.

But her mind was racing. "So _that's_ why he was so much worse than usual." She replayed Trout's attitude toward her on Friday after the debrief. He'd been furious, but at a far deeper level, and this morning, what he was waiting for must have been word from Swagerty about his recommendation. "He submitted it before the arrests and then I screwed up his plans by..." She hesitated. "By doing well. Very publicly."

And then it dawned on her. Trout had intended for Friday to be her last day. He'd expected Swagerty to take him at his word, approve the termination, and she'd have been clearing out her desk by the close of business. _Bastard_.

"Then good for you, Detective. I took a look at the report Friday night and it seemed pretty inconsequential to me. Undotted Is, uncrossed Ts. Nothing to support charges of incompetence or bad performance."

"That's because O'Hara was trained by Lassiter. _He_ doesn't make mistakes, and neither does she." Karen's tone was both stern and prideful.

Swagerty merely grinned. "So here we are, and here's what I want to do. I want to reinstate Karen immediately. I want to ride Trout out of town on a rail and take the political fallout, and I'd like you, Detective Lassiter, to rescind your resignation and return to your duties as soon as possible."

Juliet stared at him, and then at Carlton, her heart swelling.

Carlton _back_. Back in the department. Back at his desk.

Back with _her_.

_Dear God, yes._

Carlton stared at Swagerty too, and then at Karen—and then finally turned to Juliet.

He looked shocked, the blue of his eyes deepening and stormy.

But she sensed no joy in him, and this made her suddenly very uneasy. "Carlton? This is wonderful. Tell him yes."

"I…" He looked away, back at Swagerty. "No. I'm sorry, that's not going to work."

"It's not going to work?" he repeated. "How is it not going to work?"

Karen leaned forward. "Carlton?"

"I'm not taking Juliet's job," he said levelly. "She's the head detective now."

"Oh—Carlton, no, that doesn't matter to me," Juliet protested, hand on his arm again. "Having you back at the helm is what matters. I just want to do good work."

"You do excellent work. But you're the head detective now. And before you say it," he said firmly to Karen, "I can't just be a regular member of the squad, because that's not fair to her. It'll undermine her position if the guy who used to have it is sitting right there."

Juliet was floundering. "But don't you see? I'd rather have you there than have the title."

"It's not just a title." He was sober. "There's a lot of responsibility and you've more than earned it. I'm not taking that away from you." He stood up. "Mayor, I completely applaud your willingness to make this right. Having Chief Vick back on staff with Detective O'Hara running the detectives' squad is going to return the SBPD to peak operating condition in no time."

"Carlton, wait!" Juliet stood up too, sick and confused. "You can't say no to this. We need you back. _I_ need you back."

He turned to face her, blocking the others from seeing her, and his voice was low. "We can't be broken, Juliet. Remember you said that, and remember it's true."

Her heart hitched at his sincerity.

_But I didn't think it would hurt this much for you to do the right thing._

It _was_ the right thing; she knew she'd have done it in his place. But _damn_ did it hurt to have the gift of hope offered and snatched away in the same moment.

Carlton was still watching her, and his eyes said everything from regret to resolve. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and she forgave him, because he was hers even if he worked in another city, damn him to hell and back.

Behind him, Swagerty spoke to Karen with some frustration. "What now? I freely admit I don't exactly want Santa Paula or Ventura gloating about snatching him up."

"Well," she said slowly, "We could try Plan B."

"We have a plan B?"

Carlton turned around again, and Juliet stood next to him wishing she could take his hand. "What's Plan B?"

She declared, "If it keeps him at the SBPD, I already love Plan B."

Karen directed her attention to Swagerty. "The primary reason we've lasted so long without a deputy chief is that Lassiter does the work of two people, and manages a lot of department activities that I don't have time for. It means he racks up a lot of overtime," she added with a sidelong glance at Carlton, "which was never my intention, but he's nothing if not dedicated."

Swagerty frowned. "Go on."

"O'Hara keeps her position as head detective, you let me hire a new detective to fill the empty slot, and Lassiter assumes the duties of Deputy Chief, reporting directly to me as he does now, and managing in a more official capacity the areas he's been responsible for all along. Replacing his hours in the squad won't cost you much more, because his overtime will disappear—" She gave Carlton another, more meaningful sidelong glance, "and you can devote those monies to the new position."

Swagerty thought it over. "Clever. And forward-thinking as well as fiscally responsible. _I'm_ sold—"

"Wait," Carlton began.

"Dammit!" Juliet snapped. "Carlton Lassiter, stop turning a good thing down!"

Karen grinned, and Carlton looked sheepish for a second before becoming businesslike. "It's McNab. If I agree to this, then I want him re-hired. He was another needless victim of Trout's insanity."

The mayor was wary. "As I heard it, he was fired for moonlighting, which is against department policy for a lot of very good reasons."

"Yes it is, but McNab was a dedicated officer who deserved a reprimand before outright termination."

Karen nodded. "I have to agree, Mayor. I only learned about the moonlighting the day before his termination and frankly, _I'd_ have given him a second chance."

"His work on the Morrell case proves his value," Juliet added. "I'd like him back too."

Swagerty rolled his eyes. "_This_ is the deal-breaker?"

"No," Juliet cut in before Carlton could say a word. "Carlton accepts the Deputy Chief position whether or not Buzz gets rehired." She skewered him with a single look, and his blue eyes widened as he understood her absolute intent to kick his ass if he dared argue.

"All right then." Swagerty got to his feet, followed by Karen. "I think I will leave it up to newly reinstated Chief Vick to make the call on whether McNab is re-hired." He eyed her. "No back pay, though. That can be his penalty."

"Fair enough. Thank you, Mayor."

"No, thank you. You're helping me out of a mess I never intended to create." He stepped forward and shook hands with Carlton and then Juliet. "I apologize for the consequences of my good intentions."

_That was a good way to put it_, Juliet thought; Carlton wisely kept silent.

Swagerty asked them to join him at the police station promptly at 1:30. He would have a prepared statement for the press at that time, and he would speak to Trout personally about the end of his tenure. "I don't expect Trout'll go down easy, but then again, looks like Santa Barbara didn't go down so easy either. Thank you again, Detectives."

He followed Karen into the hall, and Juliet immediately spun to face Carlton. "You son of a bitch," she ground out, "don't you ever scare me like that again!"

He was taken aback, his eyes so very damned blue and unguarded, but before he could attempt a defense, she moved in and stood on tiptoes to kiss him, eliciting a low groan and a heated return kiss during the precious seconds before they heard Karen close the door behind Swagerty.

Breaking apart from Carlton, Juliet composed herself, hoping her flushed face only indicated she was happy about this turn of events, not that she _also_ wanted to strip Carlton naked and make him fully hers.

Karen gave them a knowing look.

"Yeah, you're going to have to work through _that_—" she waved her hand at them, "—on your own time."

_I will do my very best_, she thought, and stole a glance at her equally-flushed partner.

_If I don't drive him bonkers first._

**. . . . . .**

**. . . . .**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_Credit to Marcus Mumford for the lyrics to "I Will Wait."_

_Credit to Lawson227 for the burrito bomb in chapter 7 of her story "Memoriam."_


	18. Chapter 18: Clauses

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Clauses**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_Okay. Juliet is going to have to stop kissing me._

_Not because I don't want her to kiss me—God knows I want her to kiss me—but one of these days she's going to kiss me and it'll take ten men plus a couple of Clydesdales to get me to stop kissing _her.

The lovely young woman was still flushed and half-angry, standing by her Crown Vic in the street outside Karen's house. She was continuing to chastise him, saying in no uncertain terms that he was not to pull any more noble crap which would keep him away from the SBPD or else she'd be using him for target practice, and he believed her without question (but would still make the same choice).

Carlton was watching her expressive mouth, imagining kissing her and wondering exactly how much faster he'd end up in hell if he were to somehow provoke her into launching herself at him so he could taste her lips once more.

_She's carrying a gun, bud. Better pay attention to _her_, not your hormones. _

"Yell all you want," he said mildly, "I would never have taken your job. You know it and you wouldn't have done it to me either."

Juliet subsided, but not willingly. "Dammit."

"I told you, O'Hara. No matter where I work, we will always be a united front."

"Well… you risked our ability to be a united front in the same place," she groused.

"Because that wasn't a scenario I could accept."

She folded her arms, glaring at him. "I hate it when you're right."

"But it's so rare," he said—and he wasn't kidding. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred when Juliet said he was wrong about something, he _was_.

Yet somehow, this made her laugh and relax. "That's true. And this is better for you anyway, Deputy Chief. What do you think about it?"

He'd barely had time to consider the full impact of Karen's Plan B. Between the Anger!Kiss and their embarrassed mumblings to Karen after her decree before ushering themselves out, the idea of returning to the SBPD in any capacity hadn't fully sunk in.

But he liked it. Yes he did.

"'Deputy Chief' works for me. It's about as far up the ladder as I want to go anymore, now that I have a better understanding of how little Karen gets to do actual police work."

"You'll be great," she said with confidence.

"I'd better be. It's essentially what I've _been_ doing, only with more clout. One downside, though."

Juliet's good cheer faded a bit. "What?"

"If she's going to disallow the overtime, I won't have as much opportunity for fieldwork."

"Worried you'll lose your edge?" she teased.

"Hell no. I was thinking I'd miss working investigations with you."

She went pink, squeezing herself a little. "I've… been missing that for a couple of months now."

"Me too," he admitted, buoyed by her obvious sincerity. "Those hours in the patrol car were pretty lonely." He allowed himself to touch her arm, and she immediately covered his hand with hers. "That's why I fully intend to call on the Head Detective to assist me whenever I do get personally involved in an investigation."

Her smile warmed him—she had no idea how often she'd warmed him over the years—and she rubbed his hand, not letting him withdraw it.

"Of course… what if no one else wants me back?"

"Oh, shut it. Everyone wants you and Vick back."

"Vick, sure. Me—"

Without hesitation, Juliet shoved his hand off her arm and glared. "I said. Shut. It."

He shut it. And missed her hand.

Composing herself, she leaned against the car and briefly gazed up at the trees, the sunshine giving her skin a golden cast… but then she always seemed to shimmer a little.

Juliet returned her attention to him. "I believe you have some calls to make now."

"Do I?"

"To Ventura and Santa Paula."

He kept his expression blank. "I haven't been offered any jobs there."

"Carlton." She was tart. "Remove yourself from their consideration, and remove yourself at once."

"Why are you so sure they're hot to hire me?"

She shook her head, as if she'd explained this a hundred times—which she sort of had but he still couldn't make sense of it—and finally said, "Because _I'm_ hot to get you _back_."

Carlton felt a distinct ripple of awareness at her possessive tone.

"Now call them," Juliet repeated, "and withdraw your name, or I'm going to have to start threatening your physical safety again."

He smirked, happy despite the seriousness of the warning. "You have become a violent woman in the past few weeks, O'Hara. As your new supervisor, I think I'm going to suggest you get some counseling for these anger issues."

Her jaw dropped, and she advanced on him, and he thought _oh God I'm going to be plundered in the street again_ followed by _hell yeah_ _bring it on_ followed by _uh, wait a second, this time I think she might actually hit me_… and he backed away.

"Easy," he soothed. "Kidding."

"Make the calls, wise-ass."

But her cheeks were a telling pink, and purely male instinct reassured him he was right: Karen, had she looked out her front window, would have gotten quite a show.

_Next time, moron, if you're going to be a selfish jerk manipulating her into crossing her own boundaries, make sure you're not standing in the middle of the street_.

He promised he would call Kiser and Mancuso as soon as he got back to his condo, and he'd see her later at the station for the big showdown.

Juliet's ire faded, and she came close enough to hug him quickly, whispering sweet words he didn't deserve.

"I'm so glad we'll be together again, partner."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet was exhilarated. Enthralled. Also apprehensive and totally head-over-ass giddy.

It should have been about Trout being kicked out.

But it was mostly about Carlton's return… although she still wanted to smack him around a little.

_Now admit it: you know it speaks very well of him that he refused the job at first because of you._

_Yes, I admit that. _

_So stop being annoyed and go back to being thrilled._

It was just the way he provoked her in front of Karen's house. Making her think, even in jest, that he'd still consider an offer from one of the other cities.

He didn't mean it, and he didn't intend for her to think he meant it, but he didn't understand in the least the strength of her resolve that he not leave her, even to go so little as forty-five minutes away. He didn't get—yet—what he meant to her.

She hadn't gotten it either, until she'd lost him.

Pounding on the steering wheel, she cursed him for looking so damned good in the sunshine, black and silver hair tousled, blue eyes bright and perceptive, khakis and open-necked white shirt, that irresistible glimpse of chest hair…

_Remember Shawn?_

She braked a little harder than she meant to at the light, earning startled stares from pedestrians at the sound of her tires screeching on the pavement.

_The guy you were just recently planning to make a life with?_

Damn her conscience for pointing out how quickly she'd turned this corner of her life.

But… Juliet sighed. It was over, that's all. Shawn was over.

Her phone buzzed, and since the light was still red, she looked at the screen.

_Think of the devil…_

"Hi, Shawn," she said briskly. "What's up?"

"Hey, Jules. It's been over a week. Still mad at me?"

Her finger was awfully close to the disconnect button, but she soldiered on. No need to be cruel to him; he did care.

"No, but I'm glad you called. I've been boxing up the rest of your things and I'm putting them in the master bedroom for you to pick up."

Silence from his end. "Well, that's cold. And fast."

"It's not exactly fast. I told you I was giving notice at the end of this week. I'll be moving out in another month."

"I don't see why that's necessary. We could still work it out," he said gently.

_He learns nothing. Or else he thinks people have very short memories._

"It's necessary because I can't afford to live there on my own, and we're not going to work it out, and why are we having this conversation again?"

"Because I still love you. But never mind; I know you think you don't want to hear that. The real reason I called is to say I've found a new place, not far from the house, and I only signed a three-month lease so that way I'm not locked into it in case you change your mind."

_Note to self: find new place _far away_ from my current address._

"Congratulations on finding something you like." She pulled over into a parking spot, stopping the engine. She couldn't handle madness and driving at the same time.

"Well, it's two things. The new place _and_ you." He was using his 'smooth' voice.

"Shawn, I really didn't think I was going to have to tell you this again. We're done. I'm not—"

"Jules, listen," he interrupted, pleading. "I just can't believe it's that easy for you. I need to hear you say you have regrets. That you still love me. That one day you're going to wish you hadn't done this."

_Throw him a bone._

… _throw him to the wolves._

_No… throw him a bone._

"You know it's not easy, and I already told you I'll always care about you. I don't know why you doubt me; I guess it's because you've _never_ really listened to me. But if I ever wish I hadn't done it, I promise you'll be the first person I call."

_Right after my therapist, a priest, and the admitting nurse for a mental institution._

He was quiet for a few moments.

"Shawn?"

"I really miss you, sweetie. Please tell me you miss me."

_I would… if I did. One day I _might_ miss the humor and your love of fun—but right now I don't._

"I'm sorry," she said aloud, and she meant it. "I'll call you in a few days to set up a time for you to come get your stuff. You'll probably need to borrow Henry's truck."

"I was getting ready to buy a car," he said softly. "In a few months. I was saving up."

_An offering too late for the collection_, she thought, _and a promise I've heard before_.

"Shawn, remember when you told me you'd taken dancing lessons?"

"Yeah, I did that for you." A touch of pride.

"No, actually, you didn't. I wanted to take those lessons _with_ you. I wanted us to share that experience, and you weren't interested. So when you told me you went back later and took the lessons on your own, at first I thought wow, that's… special. That means something. But now I see it didn't mean what you wanted it to mean. All you did was deny me the opportunity to share something sweet and romantic and fun with my boyfriend. Taking the lessons on your own—so you could spring it on me later like some big gift—that was… I hate to say it, but that was manipulative. That was you putting an ace up your sleeve to use sometime when you were in trouble. So you could distract me by the surface sweetness of it."

Silence.

"It worked that day, Shawn. Just like it worked in Canada when you first told me you were thinking about buying a car. But it doesn't work anymore. The blinders are off. Whatever you were to me, the truth is I can't trust anything you say, and so it doesn't matter what you feel or what I feel or what we had. I'm hanging up now, and I'm never, ever having this conversation with you again."

The oddest thing of all, as she started the engine and re-entered traffic, is that she wasn't angry or sad or even feeling guilty anymore.

Shawn had… worn off.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

At 1:25, Carlton parked in one of the visitor spaces, seeing Karen exiting her car nearby. As she caught up with him, he texted Juliet to say they'd arrived, and she met them at the main entrance, eyes bright and body language tense.

"Swagerty's not here yet but he called and asked us to wait in the conference room."

Carlton braced himself, and at his side, he knew Karen was doing the same: for him, it had just been a few weeks, but for her, over two months had passed since she'd been on her home turf.

A hush widened around the three of them as they walked in.

At Booking, Patricia Allen's saucer eyes went so wide he thought she might faint. Dobson dropped a folder and had to scramble to collect the papers. Miller simply froze.

They passed Trout's— _Karen's_—office, Juliet leading them in a straight path to the conference room. He and Karen nodded to those who made cognizant eye-contact, and slowly some of the shock around them became cautious smiles.

Juliet led them in and closed the door. Karen rapidly sank into the closest chair and Carlton was surprised to see this show of vulnerability.

"Didn't think it would feel so strange," she admitted. "Been too long."

"It'll feel like home any second now, and later you can scream at everyone for old times' sake."

"Smartass," she muttered, but there was no heat in it.

The blinds were open, and Carlton looked past the curious eyes of those in the bullpen, across to Trout's office.

He hadn't looked up from whatever was on his desk (most likely the centerfold from _Kitchen Timer Monthly_) when they passed his half-open door, but he was on the move now, striding toward the conference room as if he'd been aware of their presence the entire time.

Juliet said, "Look, Swagerty just came in."

The mayor called to Trout, who spun at the sound.

They stood in the hall, with Swagerty gesturing toward Trout's office, but Trout wasn't moving. His posture _shouted_ that he knew something was up, and by God he wasn't going to make it easy for anyone.

Swagerty again gestured to the office—his demeanor quite calm in contrast—but again Trout didn't move, and when Swagerty reached out to grasp his arm, Trout actually jerked back, turning from him and resuming his rapid approach to the conference room.

Juliet stood back, coming to stand next to Carlton as Trout flung the door open.

"Helloooo, trespassers." He put his hands on his hips, and spared a glance for Juliet. "That goes for you too, honey, because you're fired."

"No, she's not," Karen said evenly, not rising.

"You're obviously confused about your role here, Vick. You're not Chief anymore, and what I've found in my tenure says you should have been ousted a long time ago."

"That's a steaming crock of crap," Carlton snapped. Beside him, he could feel Juliet radiating angry agreement.

"Yes, it is." Swagerty had come in behind Trout. "Mr. Trout, please come with me to your office so we can speak privately."

Trout emitted something _approximating_ a burst of laughter. "What have you got to say that you can't say in front of a few ex-employees?"

"Well," Swagerty said without emphasis, "normally people don't want their performance analyzed in front of others, so out of respect for their feelings, I prefer to have those discussions one on one."

"Please," Trout scoffed. "We're all adults. Lassiter's retired, Vick knows she's history and I've been warning O'Hara for weeks that her days were numbered." His pale blue eyes narrowed. "And if you're here out of some misguided belief that _I'm_ the problem with the SBPD, you can say it right in this room."

Swagerty smiled. It did not reach his dark eyes, nor did it warm his expression in the least.

Carlton liked this guy.

"Fine." He closed the door and stepped closer to Trout. "I'm here to invoke the clause in your contract which says I can fire your diabolical little ass because you pissed me off. You pissed the whole city off. You piss everyone off, Trout, and in your months here I really haven't found one single piece of data to support my obviously insane decision to bring you in."

Trout's mouth opened and then closed again, but otherwise he maintained his sneer.

The mayor wasn't finished… and he was still smiling. "I'm going to contact all the people who recommended you and find out what you had on them to get so many lies on your behalf. I might even call your mother."

Trout flinched.

"But first, Mr. Trout, I'm going to have Officers Garibaldi and Silvers escort you to the office you will momentarily be vacating, allow you to gather your personal belongings, confiscate your SBPD credentials, and walk your sorry carcass out of Chief _Vick's_ police station."

He opened the door… _still_ smiling.

Garibaldi and Silvers flanked it, attention focused on Trout, who hadn't moved but was clearly about to blow.

He opened his mouth again.

"Shut it," Karen said. "In this police station, you _will_ respect the authority of the mayor of Santa Barbara." She stood up, composed and cool.

Carlton thought… _aaaaand we're back_.

He glanced down at Juliet, who was looking at him, her dark blue eyes wide, and she moved her hand against his to give him a discreet fist bump.

_Yeah. We're back._

To his credit, Trout said nothing. The officers and the mayor followed him to his office, and Carlton, Juliet and Karen watched from the conference room as he threw things into his briefcase and flung his badge and other police-issued accoutrements at the officers.

Karen stepped into the hall, occupying a central position but seeming serene, and Carlton and Juliet stayed at her side.

Swagerty left the office first, but fell into step with Trout as he headed for the exit. Karen closed the distance between them, so Carlton and Juliet followed, which placed them all close enough to witness the coup de grâce.

At the door, which Silvers held open, Trout pulled back sharply when Swagerty touched his arm as if to shake his hand. The sleek black kitchen timer fell from his grasp.

Easily catching the evil instrument, Swagerty inspected it with care, glancing at Trout's constipated expression briefly. "Very nice," he said, and in the next second threw it down the stone steps and into the drive as if he were the star pitcher for the Oakland As.

Bits of black and silver plastic flew everywhere as the timer hit concrete.

Sweet Mary, mother of God, this was a _very_ good day. Juliet laughed softly when Carlton fist-bumped her again.

Swagerty smiled at the utterly shocked Trout.

"_Oops_."

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	19. Chapter 19: Not The Last Chapter

**CHAPTER NINETEEN: Not The Last Chapter**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet lay smiling in her bed, turning out the light before calling her best friend and future lover.

Nightly conversations with Carlton had become the norm, yet another aspect of their relationship she _needed_ now.

His smoky voice was ever-warm in her ear as they rehashed the afternoon; first the glorious destruction of the kitchen timer—the last chunks of which were run over by a FedEx truck moments later—and then Mayor Swagerty's clear intention of explaining these developments being delayed by a round of applause, whoops, whistles and at least one raspberry.

She thought maybe Trout heard it through the closed door, judging by how he turned once and scowled before getting into his car, but Carlton said she was a dreamer. He said it fondly, though, and if he knew what kind of dreams she had about him, he'd be blushing.

Swagerty's remarks were brief: Trout was out, Karen was back in, Carlton was returning as the new Deputy Chief, and he himself was now going back to City Hall to face whatever media storm might be coming. He told them they'd all done fine work under pressure and he had the grace to apologize for putting them through hell in an attempt to streamline.

This generated another round of applause, and she thought she heard him mutter with a grin, "so nice not to be hated" before he bounded out of the station, leaving Karen with the monumental task of trying to restore order.

"Tom Swagerty is the least objectionable mayor I've ever worked with," Carlton now remarked.

Juliet laughed. "That is extremely high praise coming from you."

"I know."

She could almost hear the smirk. "Silly. Oh… I don't want any arguments about this, but I'm going back to my old desk."

"You don't have to do that—"

"Didn't I _just_ tell you not to argue with me? You belong at your desk. That is your corner, and your domain. Besides, I like being closer to the coffee and pastries."

"Well, so long as your priorities are straight."

He and Karen and Juliet had spent part of the afternoon looking at Trout's activities, trying to figure out what changes were worth keeping and which needed to be undone. They also had to deal with reporters in an impromptu press conference late in the day; the news of Karen's reinstatement along with the firing of the special consultant caused quite a stir. Juliet was proud to stand beside Karen Vick and Carlton on those stone steps—the remaining fragments of the kitchen timer glinting in the afternoon sun—and felt as if only good things were ahead despite this temporary disorder.

The Chief took a break to call Buzz McNab and offer him a job. She said he sounded like he might cry, but would report for duty at least an hour before she needed him there.

Interrupting her recollections, Carlton said, "I'm really proud of you, Juliet."

"You are? Why?"

"Because you stayed the course. You fought the dragon. Dragons, really, if you count your… personal life in there."

She had to smile at the analogy, but also found his hesitation intriguing. "Do you consider yourself one of the dragons?"

"Didn't you?" He was matter-of-fact.

"But… even in the middle of all that you still helped me with the Garcia case and you… well, you let me know I… mattered."

"Because you do." He cleared his throat. "I'm sure Spencer told you the same thing."

Juliet paused. "He may have thought it, but he kept working against me by not working _with_ me. 'I'll get the groceries, I'll get the groceries.' I can't believe how much money I spent eating out just to prove my point."

"How… uh… how are you, about him?"

She tried to analyze this new hesitation. He was probably asking as a friend, a friend who happened to be uncomfortable discussing others' feelings (let alone his), but he might (might?) also be asking as a potential new contender for her heart.

Which soon she would tell him was already labeled _Property of_ _Carlton Lassiter_.

"I am thinking of Shawn as part of my past. The recent past, but definitely the past. So the answer is, I'm good."

"Excellent," he said with undisguised relief.

It was, she reflected later as she drifted off to sleep. It was all excellent.

_Now take the time you asked for, and use it to restore order in your life, and then—and only then—can you show Carlton just how firmly and indelibly your heart is labeled with his name_.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"About Shawn," Juliet said.

Karen looked up from her desk, and Carlton, who had been about to leave the room, stopped with his hand on the knob.

"What about him?"

Juliet seemed steady. "I would like to recommend we not re-hire Psych for a while."

"Duly noted. Pardon my bluntness, but is this related to your recent breakup?"

Carlton watched his beloved carefully but she remained distinctly un-agitated.

"Not really. It's just that they're the reason we ended up with Trout in the first place. Not that Carlton and I didn't play our own parts, but… if we hire them again anytime soon, it's really only going to validate Shawn's ego."

"Which is already out of control," Carlton muttered.

Karen smiled faintly. "True."

"Being around Trout, hearing his take on our interaction with Shawn and Gus… I have to admit he's right. It looks bad that they were always here. It looks like we couldn't solve cases without him. And I know Shawn essentially hired himself on a lot of those cases, but I don't…" She drew herself up. "I don't want to give anyone any reason to keep thinking we're not capable of doing our own work."

"Hear, hear." Carlton moved to stand beside her, and Juliet glanced up at him with her own faint smile.

Karen was ever practical. "Okay, well, I don't want to say 'never' because he does seem to have the ability to get to the heart of a case quickly when we need it, but I agree we can put it off as long as possible, and assert more control over him when we do call him in." She rolled her eyes. "Or try, anyway."

"We'll try harder," Juliet said firmly. "May I tell you something off the record?"

Karen's eyebrows went up. "The door's closed, so yes."

Now she started to look uneasy, but after a deep breath, seemed to squash her own reluctance. "Shawn isn't psychic. He's just hyper-observant with an eidetic memory and impressive deductive reasoning skills."

There was a great silence, and Carlton went very still.

_I knew it. I knew it, but never thought _she'd_ accept it._

He looked at Karen first, and she was unsmiling, but oddly calm. He himself felt oddly calm.

Then he looked at Juliet, who was pale but still steady.

"You know I can't admit to having heard that."

"I know. That's why I wanted it off the record. I've only known for a few months."

Karen sighed and leaned back in her chair, turning it slowly to one side. "I always… doubted, but he did seem to pull a lot of answers out of thin air."

Carlton touched Juliet's back, and she gave him an immediate grateful look.

"I knew I needed to tell you, Chief. And you, Carlton. But I didn't know how and I didn't know what the consequences would be, so I stalled, and then with Trout around I had to keep it quiet. But now that I'm done with Shawn, and now that we all have a chance to set everything straight, I couldn't keep it from either of you anymore."

Nodding, Karen relaxed and sat up straight again. "All right. You never said it and I never heard it and Carlton, you weren't even in the building, but I'll say this much: having it confirmed? Knowing that really anyone could have done what he did by just paying closer attention? Means I'll be able to think twice before giving into the urge to call him in."

_Thank God_, Carlton thought.

They agreed the conversation had never taken place, and when Carlton and Juliet went back to the bullpen, he steered her to his reclaimed desk (it seemed so long since he'd left; it also seemed like yesterday, and best of all, it seemed he could pick up traces of Juliet all around him each time he sat down), where she sank into the chair alongside.

"Not my business," he said as he took his own seat, "but is that why you two broke up a few months ago?"

Shadows crossed her lovely face. "Yes. I was devastated. I felt like a complete fool. And I think, if he'd left me alone like I asked him to, the relationship might have ended then. But it's not his way to respect boundaries, so he wore me down until I talked myself into believing I could give it another shot."

"There's nothing wrong with that. Giving a second chance is usually a good thing." He decided not to ask her how she knew, not yet.

"Maybe if I'd been stronger then, we wouldn't have had to deal with Trout now." She searched his face, her own gaze very intent, colored by a trace of hurt. "Maybe I wouldn't have nearly lost you."

She could somehow squeeze his heart without even moving a muscle. "Juliet," he said softly.

"But this is better." She straightened herself, and smiled brightly. "I might not have seen things quite so clearly if things happened differently. So no regrets, Carlton. We have what we have, and it's good."

He _so_ wanted to reach out and touch her hand. "It's very good."

Juliet stood up, still smiling, and before she turned to go to her own desk, she paused long enough to place her hand atop his, squeezing briefly.

_Mind-reader._

**. . . .**

**. . .**

She gave notice to her landlord on Friday, making it clear that if Shawn stepped in to renew the lease he would be doing so on his own. But Shawn had stayed away for a few days, apart from a text congratulating her on the ouster of Trout.

Chief Vick said he called her Thursday afternoon to remind her that Psych's services were available, and she told him she'd keep his name on file, but for the time being he was still disinvited to the station until everything had settled down to _her_ satisfaction.

Juliet was relieved. She wasn't sure she could trust Shawn any time soon, not when it came to agreeing their relationship was truly over, and if the SBPD called him in for a case in the foreseeable future, he would regard it as a victory of monumental proportions, and in fact would probably be unable to fit his head in the main doors even if both were propped wide open.

The station felt right again. The squad had settled down, Karen Vick's return and Carlton's renewed presence in the bullpen serving to stabilize the troops in a way Juliet couldn't have done on her own under Trout's regime. Dobson told her privately that he was looking forward to Carlton's first bad mood. "It's going to seem like Cuddly Day compared to Trout. I might have to hug him." Juliet made him promise to do it in front of her.

Over the weekend, she talked Carlton into going with her to look at a few potential apartments. He wanted to go into the station and keep figuring out the full range of his new duties, but Karen told him no firmly and Juliet half-suspected that he was mostly hesitant about accompanying her on a quest he thought should be her decision alone.

"I don't want to influence you," he said. "You know how I feel about proximity to squirrels, liberals and hippies."

"_I'm_ a liberal."

He scowled. "You're different. You carry a gun."

"And you know, you're kind of liberal too."

Carlton drew back. They were at breakfast Saturday morning—his favorite pancake place—and he didn't know it but she was going to pay for his meal as a "welcome back" gift.

"What in _the hell_ are you talking about?"

Juliet grinned. "Think about it. Your mom's a lesbian. You were romantically involved with a felon. I believe you dated a girl with a nose ring in college, and you voluntarily got counseling after your divorce. You work for a woman you actually respect, and your last two partners have been female. Face it, Carlton. You're not the repressed conservative you want everyone to think you are."

He was annoyed enough to set his coffee down and glare at her for a good ten seconds. "That is the coldest thing you've ever said to me, and you'd better stop laughing right this minute."

She could not.

"O'Hara, I mean it."

Carlton gave her another scowl, his dark brows furrowed, but she kept laughing, finally having to put her napkin up to her face both to conceal more giggling and also dry a few tears.

Reluctantly, he sort of… halfway… smiled a _little_. "Dammit. Don't you tell _anyone_."

"I promise," she said between giggles, and when the waiter brought the check and she grabbed it before Carlton could even see it, his renewed scowl was a thing of beauty too. (But he blushed when he thanked her, and once again his tough-as-nails cover was blown.)

She had three apartments to look at today, and had already made up her mind—although certainly she didn't tell _Carlton_—that she wanted to live close to him, and that even if he didn't want to influence her decision, she would not choose a place he wouldn't be comfortable in.

…because she intended to spend a lot more after-hours time with this man, and if he didn't feel at home in her place, then it wouldn't be her place. That was why she wanted him with her when she chose. (Other than merely wanting him with her, period.)

Rental-hunting with Shawn had been a hassle from start to finish. He had to know where each potential house was in relation to his favorite food vendors and restaurants. There had to be room in the driveway for his bike, her Bug and Gus' car at all times. And most importantly, it had to have "cool," whatever the hell that was.

Yet after the months they'd lived there, the only room which really felt like _hers_ was the guest room she'd occupied since the breakup.

The leasing agents all thought she and Carlton were a couple. He kept quiet about it, although he was clearly uncomfortable, and Juliet didn't tell any of them they were wrong.

_We _are_ a couple. He _will_ be around here. Maybe only my name will go on the lease but this will be our place_.

The first place was on the second floor; it was large and bright but overlooked a parking lot. Carlton pursed his lips and remained noncommittal. "It's up to you," he kept saying.

_He doesn't like this one._

The second place opened out into the pool area of the complex. Here, Carlton said flatly, "You'll hate it. Kids shrieking all day during the summer, then noisy punks sneaking in to swim after hours, not to mention the continuous smell of chlorine—but… um… it's up to you."

_Strike two._ Juliet concealed a grin, and they went on.

The last place was on the end, on the second floor, and reminded her of the apartment she'd given up to move in with Shawn. It was airy and cheerful, and while she inspected the kitchen, Carlton took a look at the windows and doors (security always paramount for him). As she came out to join him, she caught a slight smile on his lean face, and she knew: _this is the place he likes. This is the one_.

He dropped the smile and asked solemnly, "What do you think?"

"What do _you_ think?"

"Juliet, I told you. This is going to be _your_ home, so you have the final say. My opinion doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does, because I will not live anywhere which doesn't have the Carlton Lassiter Seal of Approval."

He rolled his eyes. "Come on. You've never needed that before."

Juliet breezed past him to go look at the master bedroom. "That's because I didn't understand how much I needed _you_ before."

She heard his intake of breath—she loved doing that to him—and when he followed her slowly into the bedroom, she asked quite innocently, "Where do you think the bed should go?"

"Over on the west—dammit, stop." He put his hand on her shoulder and turned her around. "It's _your_ place."

Juliet sighed, because when he was close like this (especially touching her; he'd touched her more in the last month than in the last seven years), she went dangerously melty. "Carlton, you're the most important person in my life. I'm not making a decision like this without your input."

He puzzled over this, his crystal-blue eyes trying to make sense of her, and despite all her good intentions, she stepped forward, sliding her arms around his waist. His strong arms immediately closed around her, and she tilted her head for his kiss, which was sweet and surprised, and tasted as if he couldn't help himself… which made it even sweeter.

It was also all too brief, because the leasing agent returned with a floor plan she'd promised, calling out Juliet's name as she sought them out.

Carlton let her go, looking a bit pale, and Juliet's heart was rushing and rushing along.

She whispered, "You make me weak," before answering the agent and telling her she'd be delighted to sign a lease.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_You make me weak._

He knew the feeling. He was trying so hard not to show any particular reaction to the apartments, trying not to let slip that he imagined the two of them sharing a place, and then she had to go and tell him he was important, and then she had to go and kiss him.

_And let you kiss _her_, you mean._

_No… she invited it. I couldn't resist. I'm a pushover. She gets close and next thing I know, we're kissing._

If he were an optimistic man he'd think she… was going to be his.

The scary thing was, he was starting to think he actually _was_ an optimistic man.

Optimistic _and_ liberal? Hell.

Maybe he should check his own ID. What was happening to him?

_Juliet_ was happening to him.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	20. Chapter 20: Still Not The Last Chapter

**CHAPTER TWENTY: Still Not The Last Chapter**

**. . . .  
****. . .**

**_[There be smut here.]_**

. . . .  
**. . .****  
**

Buzz McNab reported for duty on Monday morning, had to take a break after an hour to get control of his emotions, and then settled in to work as hard as he'd ever worked in his life.

Carlton was pleased, and Juliet very much enjoyed that he didn't want anyone to see it. As much as he'd doggedly tried to get McNab to 'man up' over the years, she knew he valued the big guy for more than his persistent adoration.

"We're almost back to where we should be," he commented to Juliet the next day. "The Chief and I have reviewed the candidates for the new detective's position and we'll turn our top picks over to you this afternoon."

"To _me_?"

"Well, you're the Head Detective. You'll have to work more closely with the new guy than anyone else, so you get to make the final call."

He said it matter-of-factly, as if he didn't realize that not so long ago, he wouldn't have relinquished this type of decision to save his life.

Some day, she would have to explain to him how remarkable this moment was, and what an enormous expression of trust. Trusting her in the field, and trusting her to be careful with his heart—these were givens now, but to trust her with the details of what had been his closely-guarded job?

Juliet stopped him walking back to his desk. "These candidates… are any of them from the patrol division?"

"Yeah. Silvers and Micelli. The other two are from—"

"When you were on patrol and the uniforms kept pranking you," she interrupted, "were either Silvers or Micelli involved?"

Carlton went quiet, studying her. "Micelli was there the day I got doused with red paint. Silvers stayed out of all of it. I'm pretty sure I heard him telling a few of the others off once."

"Why are you even giving Micelli a chance?"

He was still quiet. "He's got the ability, and Vick likes him."

Juliet tried to read him—the parts he didn't want read. "You didn't want to tell her about that day."

Carlton sighed and headed toward his desk again, but Juliet followed him. "Look," he said in a low voice, "this is part of life, okay? Guys do stupid stuff in large groups and sometimes they have regrets, and I'm not exactly known for my winning personality. If he comes up here, he'll have to work his ass off just like everyone else."

She frowned, folding her arms and staying put even after he sat down and tried to wave her off (like that would ever work again) (and he knew it, but he was uncomfortable and wanted the conversation to be over) (like that would ever work again either). "Carlton."

"O'Hara," he said deliberately. "You get the final say. Pick the candidate who's going to do the best job."

"Then I'll tell you now it won't be Micelli. It won't be anyone who knowingly participated in or did not actively try to prevent the harassment of a fellow officer. We don't need bullies on the force."

He leaned forward, his voice still low. "You sure you're not just taking up for the target here out of a specific personal interest?"

Juliet arched one eyebrow. "I admit the fact it was you they were harassing pisses me off, just like it kind of pisses me off that you want to write it off simply because it _was_ you."

He was startled, his blue eyes widening momentarily. "Juliet—"

"This is where your ego and arrogance _should_ kick in, Carlton. Keep that Micelli file. I won't even look at it." She marched back to her desk.

In a few minutes he called her desk phone. "How mad at me are you?"

"Not very. Can we have dinner tonight?"

She turned in time to see his bemused expression, and he smiled as he said yes.

_That's what I like. You smiling as you say yes._

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet commented over coffee one morning that Spencer was evading her calls to come pick up his stuff.

Carlton had helped her stack everything of Spencer's in the master bedroom, which was stripped of everything else. She was giving him the bed they'd bought together—Carlton refused to think about _that_—and keeping the one from the guest room, which had been hers to begin with.

It seemed a lot of the things they bought together she was turning over to Spencer, and many of the housewarming gifts she was quite cheerfully boxing up and labeling as his.

She did keep the ninja kunai throwing blades he'd given them, he noted.

"After having to fight off that guy right here in the house, I can see the benefit of having access to other weapons," she remarked. "Besides, Shawn will only hurt himself. Or Gus. There'll be blood. Gus will need therapy. Really, it's best I keep them."

He snorted back laughter at the time, and now as he sipped his coffee, decided he might have a word with Henry about this. There was no need for Juliet to have to worry about getting Spencer to accept his responsibilities, and collecting his piles of crap was one of those responsibilities.

However, when he arranged to meet the elder Spencer early Saturday morning at Stearns Wharf for some fishing, Henry didn't want to talk about his son.

"Come on, Henry. You still have some influence over him."

"You know better than that."

"I do not. You and Guster are the only two people who've ever held sway over his normally bad judgment."

"Thanks," Henry said dryly. "He moved out last week. Got a place over near Juliet. He quit talking about her and now he's just brooding."

"I don't care about the brooding. This is simple. He needs to come get his junk."

"I know." Henry handed him a thermos of coffee.

"Okay, I get that you're not his keeper, and neither is Guster. Fine. But if he doesn't pick up his crap, Juliet's moving out anyway and she's not taking it with her. The landlord will have every right to sell or destroy everything left behind."

"I know." Henry sipped his own coffee. "What do you want me to do about it?"

Carlton considered baiting his hook with _Henry_. "I want you to tell him that if he keeps dodging Juliet's calls, all his precious eighties memora-crappia is getting tossed."

"Harsh. But realistic."

"Whackaloons. Both of you," he muttered.

Henry only chuckled. "I'll make my truck available but I can't make him use it. _You_ talk to him."

"Screw that."

"Well, since you're apparently close enough to Juliet now to be speaking on her behalf, why not go directly to the horse's patootie?"

"Dammit, Henry."

Again Henry chuckled. "Okay, I'll talk to him. Congratulations to both of you, by the way, on regaining control of the station. It's good to know Karen's at the helm again."

"Thanks, and I'm _not_ speaking on Juliet's behalf."

"It was just a theory. Everything… going _okay_ there?"

Carlton gave him a suspicious look. "There where?"

"Why do you always make this so hard?"

"Because you're always so damned nosy."

Henry shrugged. "That's fair."

Carlton had to settle for out-fishing the son of a bitch just to get his blood-pressure back to a normal level.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

There was An Incident.

Juliet, as the weeks passed, struggled daily to resist the urge to kiss Carlton again. It was incredibly difficult to be strong—even when the kiss was going to be chaste. She could not have him thinking of her as some kind of tease, leading him on when so far as _he_ knew, it might be toward the axe.

_He couldn't really think that. Surely he knew she was his._

But he was so _very_ tempting, all lean blue-eyed tension and strength. It was as if once she'd fully opened the window to _really_ take in the view she'd had for years, it became all she wanted to see. To touch. To envelop and be enveloped by.

Judging by the looks he gave her sometimes, looks he probably thought she didn't see—all heavy-lidded blue desire—he hadn't lost his edge for her.

Over the first month of his return to the SBPD, she called upon him frequently to help her pack in the evenings. It was oddly comforting to have him get to know the pieces of her life, from her knick-knacks to the arrangement of the clothes in her closet. Sometimes they had dinner out, and their morning coffee routine had been fully re-implemented.

Best way to start the day… so far.

The work, their _police_ work, seemed bafflingly easy at the station. She was working well with Silvers, her final (and easy) choice for the new detective's position, and Carlton was learning how to best apply his new authority. Although he didn't get to go out in the field as much, he was still slinging decisions and monitoring multiple actions at one time, and had zero time to be bored or restless. She reported to him throughout the day, just as he reported to Vick, and from where she sat at her old desk, he looked damned good at his.

_It won't be long now_, she thought. _I'll get settled in my new place, and we'll... begin._

But first... there was An Incident.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

It was ten days before Juliet's move, and Carlton was at her house to dismantle a curio cabinet she didn't trust the movers to handle right, while she packed up some of her kitchen supplies.

He couldn't remember where she'd put her toolbox, so he went to the kitchen and found Juliet standing on the counter trying to reach the top shelf. She turned too quickly at the sound of his voice and the second she started to tumble, he launched himself forward to catch her.

She fell backwards against his chest with an _oof_, and he tightened his arms around her middle as he set her down, his heart thumping.

"Dammit," he said breathlessly, "don't _do_ that. I'm tall. You're supposed to ask tall people to reach high places for you."

"Sorry," she said just as breathlessly, and it might have been his imagination that she kept her head close to his cheek, so he could feel her soft hair. "I needed a legitimate reason to get your arms around me."

He laughed a little because what else could he do, and he squeezed her, but when he started to let go, Juliet held his arms in place firmly.

He didn't mind much. _Hold me as long as you like_. _You smell so good and you're so damned soft all over._

Juliet kept holding on, and though he knew he'd regret it later, he gave in to his own urges and nuzzled her throat, her skin like silk against his lips. She rested against his chest, stroking his forearms, and when he kissed her jaw she turned her head to capture his mouth.

It had been too long. Carlton knew, instantly and irrevocably, that he'd never again go a month without kissing this woman. He could wait for the rest of it, but the kissing was mandatory now.

So good. So intimate and loving and arousing. Her lips and tongue were delicious and sensual and he felt completely engulfed within this moment.

She sighed out _yes_, and grasped one of his hands, moving it a little higher on her abdomen.

He stopped the kiss, searching her dark blue eyes, because he was terrified now but he wanted to touch her and she seemed to want him to touch her… and at her nod of encouragement, he slowly slid his hand up the rest of the way.

Through thin cotton tee and bra, he felt the curvy weight of her breast, just as he felt her nipple hardening, and he kissed her again more fiercely, his mouth owning hers. Or maybe it was the other way around.

Making a sound like a purr... or a plea, Juliet pulled his hand under her tee and then up, her demand clear, and Carlton's fingers found their way under her bra to touch her... his nerve endings frying as his fingertips caressed her nipple directly. So soft, and so… perfect.

He could no longer see sense. Apparently neither could she: she clasped his other hand and moved it to the waistband of her jeans.

"Juliet," he breathed, knowing damned well his own arousal was evident against her backside.

"Please," she begged.

_Dear God, the woman I love is begging me to touch her._

He leaned against the counter, legs splayed, drawing her closer to his body, and at first he stroked her through the denim, exploring the soft fabric covering her thighs, his own thighs pressed to hers. He kept kissing her, tongue tracing hungry lines across her lips, and Juliet ground herself to his palm, wanting more.

He wanted to give her more. Everything.

She put one shaking hand to the zipper of her jeans and lowered it, and he wasn't sure whether either of them was breathing now, and even though this was absolutely not the right time or place, it was beyond his powers of self-control not to slide his hand inside her jeans and panties... and down.

Down across softest skin, down where she wanted him to touch her, and where he most certainly wanted to be.

He could feel her undulations, and her _want_.

And there was so much _want_, hers mixing with his into a heady concoction of utter desire.

Sending his warm fingers exploring—as if he had any say what they were doing—he marveled at her intense and silky heat. Juliet put her head back, gasping, and Carlton continued his implacable explorations, one hand teasing her breast as the other played between her thighs on damp bare skin, and it shouldn't have been that fast, because only a few minutes ago she was standing on the counter and he wasn't even in the room, but it _was_ that fast, and he was proud to do it for her.

Little moans, little undulations, her eyes closed and her breath coming faster and faster, and he loved her so and desired her so and right now, in this place, she was _his_.

Her orgasm seemed to radiate through his hand and arm and body as if he were truly sharing it with her. He slowed his fingers as she rode through it, her soft cries anxious as he pushed her on to another one, pressing himself to her from behind.

"Carlton," she gasped. "Please…" She slipped her hand between them, caressing him through his jeans, and the feeling of her hand there… holy crap, _there_… almost did him in.

_She wants it all now._

But…

But he couldn't give her that, not here. Not now. Not without her _conscious_ decision about what she wanted from him on a permanent basis.

Juliet quivered, leaning against him, making him feel as if she were the most perfect bedding in the world, totally surrounding him with her heat and desire and unmistakable emotion. Her caresses between them continued, and he had to stop her from killing him.

Slowly, Carlton withdrew his hands from her clothing—from her delicious _wanting_ body—and turned her into his embrace, holding her tightly and not letting her move from his grip. Gradually her breathing slowed to normal, and he pulled back only far enough to kiss her forehead.

"Carlton," she whispered.

He smiled, and kissed her luscious mouth gently.

"Let me," she tried.

"No." One more kiss, one more squeeze. "You make me weak, Juliet."

And that was all he could say. She would have to speak first, because he would not let her be led astray by hormones. If Juliet was going to choose him to be her man, he wanted her to make that choice free and clear.

He whispered that he'd come back tomorrow night to do the cabinet, and he'd see her in the morning over coffee.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet did not sleep that night. After Carlton left, she made it to the sink to splash cold water on her face, and then she simply stood there trembling until she could function enough to take a shower and get into bed. It wasn't even eight o'clock but all she could do was lie there and feel everything over and over again.

His hands on her.

Carlton's warm, long-fingered wicked hands.

Touching her.

Bringing her blinding pleasure.

Carlton's hands.

Carlton's mouth… seeking hers.

There was a small bruise forming at the base of her throat and her only regret about it was that she hadn't been able to feel his mouth that hungry elsewhere on her body.

What must he think of her?

She had to talk to him. Now. It was nearly midnight but _she had to know_.

"Do you think I'm awful?" she asked as soon as he picked up.

"What? No. Juliet, _no_."

"Do you think I used you?"

"_Stop_."

Her eyes were misting over because she had meant to be so strong, to leave him alone until she was in the new place and everything was settled—that was her mantra—but tonight she had essentially seduced him into touching her in the most intimate way a man can touch a woman.

And she wanted him all over again. She wanted all of him, more than his hands and mouth, everywhere.

"Juliet," he said huskily. "I think I might have used you."

"No. Absolutely not. That was all me."

"Uh, I didn't exactly need to be convinced to—" He cut himself off. "Stop. Please. We got caught up in something that's maybe been brewing awhile. It's okay. Just… sleep. Tomorrow we'll have coffee and solve crime and it'll be okay."

"Carlton, I—"

"Sleep. Please."

"Come over," she whispered, trembling all over again.

Carlton was silent for a long time. "Sleep, Juliet. This isn't the time for us. Sleep."

But there was no sleep.

And their time _was_ coming.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	21. Chapter 21: Finally, The Last Chapter

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Finally, The Last Chapter**

**. . . .**

**. . .  
**

_[It's long, but it's the last one, and it's got SMUT. __**SMUT**__, I tell you.]_

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The only reason Juliet made it through the next few days without a meltdown of lust was that she and Dobson got caught up in an attempted-murder-for-hire case with so many players there was barely enough room on the incident reports to list them all.

Carlton was tightly under control, almost back to the early days of their partnership. He still smiled and talked to her but he was keeping himself remote. She didn't dare suggest dinner that first night because she couldn't trust herself to respect _his_ boundaries, and she sensed he was relieved she didn't ask anyway.

Coffee 'the morning after' was easy: they were joined by Miller and Silvers. In the afternoon, when it was apparent she and Dobson were swamped, he asked for the key to her house so he could take the curio cabinet apart.

She wasn't surprised that he was gone before she got home. (Nor was she surprised about the x-rated nature of her dreams later.)

But this distance was temporary. Juliet knew it, and was confident he knew it too.

They still talked on the phone, but only about generalities. It was still a joy—no less than a full-out joy—to have this private connection with the private man she had come to love.

When they were at the station, she stole glances at him (more like long lingering looks), daydreaming about… things she had no business daydreaming about at work. And once in a while, she caught him looking at her in just the same way.

_There's too much to do yet. Concentrate._

She called Shawn again a few days before the move, to leave yet another message reminding him he was running out of time. Carlton had told her about his conversation with Henry, about warning him that Juliet would simply leave all of Shawn's belongings behind for the landlord to dispose of, and she now agreed this would be the correct decision. She even went so far as to warn the landlord.

That evening Carlton came by to help her touch up a few minor dings and scratches in the walls from where she and Shawn had hung pictures and posters long since packed up. They worked in close proximity and she was feeling the pull—the inexorable pull—of his physical presence.

His long-fingered hands (_what he did for you_) were graceful and strong (_what he will do for you again_) and sure (_and again_) and after awhile of her silent and almost breathless staring (_because I will do so much more for him_), he murmured her name and came closer, his blue eyes dark with desire, and that's when the damned phone rang with the damned ringtone Shawn had specifically chosen to announce his damned calls.

'_Head Over Heels_.' _Right_.

"Sometimes I despise Curt Smith," she muttered, grabbing the phone.

Carlton said nothing, resuming his work with the spackle.

"Hey, Shawn."

"Jules, my love," he said brightly. "Sorry I've been out of pocket. You know, that's another really strange expression. People don't generally live in pockets, so you should never have to apologize for being out of one. In fact, you should apologize if you're _in_ someone's pocket, because chances are it's not going to survive the experience, unless it's Andre the Giant's pocket."

_Hmmm_. "I think that's enough about pockets."

"Plus, Andre's dead. He wasn't really a giant, either. I mean, not like Jolly Green. I wonder if Andre liked vegetables?"

Juliet interrupted. "When are you coming to get your stuff?"

He smiled—she could hear it in his voice. "Is that _really_ necessary?"

"Well, I guess not," she said, keeping her tone pleasant. "I told the landlord to do what he wants with whatever's left after I move out."

"No, I meant, can't you take it with you?"

She frowned. Across the room, Carlton looked at her, his frown matching hers, as if he sensed something was wrong (_or stupid_) on the other end of the phone. "No, Shawn. There's no room for your things in my new place. Anyway, they're _yours_."

"They're ours," he corrected.

"Shawn."

"Oh, come on, sweetie. You know as well as I do that while you were packing, some of our stuff got mixed up, so really everything in all the boxes belongs to both of us."

Juliet took a breath. "Nothing of yours is in the boxes I packed for myself. I was very careful to keep your belongings separate from mine."

"When two lives are intertwined like ours," he said so gently, "it's impossible to make a definitive separation of anything."

_Don't go where he's leading._

Changing tack, she demanded, "Are you saying I would knowingly take something of yours? What would that be, Shawn? What would I keep of yours?"

"My heart," he shot back.

_Dear God, this is never going to end._

"My heart," he repeated softly, "and my life. You have that."

She sat down abruptly, and Carlton turned to face her fully, abandoning the wall work to simply watch her.

And that… helped.

"You've had weeks to take care of this," she said quietly, stronger with Carlton's steady blue gaze on her. "I'm moving out on Saturday."

Shawn didn't say anything for a moment. "Okay, okay. Truthfully, I'd have done it sooner but every time I drive by, I see Lassie's car."

"So?"

"So why is he always there?"

Deep breath. Deeeeeeep breath. "Why are you always driving by? He's been helping me."

"_I_ could have helped you."

"Carlton is my friend. _You_ wouldn't even return my calls."

He _tsk_ed. "I'm not your friend?"

"Not lately. Not a very good one, anyway."

_When was he ever really_… she stopped herself.

_Do not let bitterness over his current assery affect your memories of the good times you _did_ have_.

Carlton said in a low voice, "Hang up."

There was a time when she would have thought he was speaking out of his own dislike of Shawn. But not any more: now he spoke in her best interests.

While Shawn was protesting, babbling something about how wrong she was, she cut him off. "Come by Thursday at seven. Bring your dad's truck. Goodbye."

Phone off, she rose and crossed the room to where Carlton still stood.

"Please." It came out in a whisper.

He opened his arms and enclosed her within, and that was what she needed; his soothing murmurs against her hair, his heartbeat under her cheek. A simple little hug, long and restorative.

She _could_ get through this madness, because Carlton would not let her fall.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Thursday night, Carlton broke through his own wall and suggested that before she went home to face Spencer, they get a quick dinner together. Juliet looked so relieved; he almost hugged her right there at her desk.

_You like those hugs too much._

She told him she hadn't heard from Spencer again, but a text to Gus established that Spencer_ was_ planning to be there at the appointed time.

Across the dinner table, Juliet asked with only the slightest hesitation, "Would you come with me?"

He could answer with no hesitation at all. "Yes."

Again, her relief was palpable. "Thank you. I know it'll be okay but maybe if you're there, he'll be less…"

Carlton raised one eyebrow. "Less himself? Doubtful. But if you need moral support, I'm there."

"I need all kinds of support." She toyed with her broccoli. "I really thought… no. I _hoped_ he would make this easier."

He chose to shrug rather than express his thoughts, which were that for all the man's prowess in terms of deductive reasoning, Shawn Spencer was a complete child when it came to emotional connections. His lifelong "let's play _all the time_" friendship with Guster proved that.

Juliet gradually relaxed, and by the time the waiter brought the check, she was optimistic; he could see it in her body language and hear it in the cadence of her voice. He figured she really _had_ turned the corner when she said she'd changed the ringtone for Shawn's calls.

"Now it's a Jo Dee Messina song from the nineties called 'Bye-Bye,'" she explained. "Back in Miami, a friend of mine listened to it nonstop after a breakup."

"I don't think I know that one."

"It's not something Vic Damone would sing," she said slyly, and he couldn't help but grin. "One of the best lines is 'I'm through watchin' you just skate around the truth, and I know it sounds trite, but I've seen the light.'"

He smiled, and she smiled back.

"I've seen the truth about you too, Carlton."

Her gaze was clear, and his heart skipped a couple of beats. "And what's that?"

"That there'll be no saying goodbye to you." She gave him another brilliant smile. "Shall we go face my dragon?"

_That's right: zap me and then run away. _

Still, he'd allow it, since he had no choice, and as long as _one_ of them was St. George up against Dragon Spencer, he'd follow her anywhere.

They drove their separate vehicles over to her house, and Carlton instantly knew something was wrong by the way she slowed almost jerkily before turning into the driveway.

Then he spotted it. Spencer's Norton. _Not_ Henry's truck. The son of a bitch was stringing her along _again_.

It was still twenty minutes shy of seven, but the house blazed with lights and he had to run to catch up with Juliet, to grasp her arm and look into those angry blue eyes. "Easy," he cautioned her. "You're the adult here."

She tried to shake him free, her ire too high for calming words. "I am five damned years younger than he is. Why do _I_ always have to be the adult?"

"Same reason you always told me _I_ had to be the adult."

Juliet muttered, "That's fair," and continued her rapid approach to the house.

The front door was slightly ajar. "Shawn?" she called as she pushed it open and hurried up the stairs.

Carlton followed, listening for background noises.

What he heard was Juliet's sharp intake of breath when she got fully into the living room.

Every box which had been neatly sealed and stacked against the bare walls had been opened. Some of the contents were strewn about, and it was clear Spencer had simply knocked some boxes over carelessly—or rather, deliberately.

"Shawn!" She was angry, and yet horror radiated from her tense form.

Carlton came up behind her and touched her back lightly, his own anger blossoming.

From the master bedroom wafted music, and he followed her there.

Spencer was lying on the bed; the boxes they had carefully labeled with his name were also all open and askew. He'd found a quilt to cover the mattress, and unpacked a boombox from which now blared one of the leftover CDs Carlton had personally sealed up weeks ago.

REO Speedwagon's 'Keep On Loving You.' Subtle.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

He lazily lifted his head from a cushion borrowed from the sofa. "I'm chilling. Oh, hey, Lassie. Yeah, you're gonna wanna leave. Juliet and I have some making up to do."

Carlton's anger turned to something worse, something he couldn't put a name to, but by God, he wouldn't take action until Juliet asked.

Juliet wasn't asking him anything. She went to the end of the bed. "How did you get in?"

"I live here." He was calm in that patented Spencer way.

"You _don't_ live here, and I changed the locks."

_How can he not _see_ the depths of her anger?_

"I know. I figured that out a long time ago. But I live here, Jules. With you. And where you go, I have to go. So while I was waiting for you, I checked out some of the boxes and just as I thought, our stuff is all mixed up."

"It's not mixed up." Juliet was all ice now. Fury and ice. "_You're_ mixed up. What is wrong with you?"

Glancing past her to Carlton, Spencer said again, "Vamoose, Lassie. I know you've been hanging around here while Jules works through her anger issues, but she doesn't need you anymore. She and I are going to get everything straight tonight. I guess we'll probably have to move to that new place—which by the way isn't bad," he said to Juliet. "It gets my seal of approval. Especially that big bathtub." He waggled his eyebrows. "But anyway, yeah, we'll be going there together, and—"

"You son of a bitch," Carlton spat, "what in the hell makes you think this woman's going anywhere with you ever again?"

"You've been inside my new apartment," Juliet said slowly. "And you broke in here tonight."

"It's not breaking in if you live—"

"You broke in!" she yelled. "You trashed my things and you violated my space! My everything! How could you think this is okay? How could you think this is something I can get over?"

Spencer sat up, sliding to the end of the bed, and she backed away, her fists clenching. Carlton could tell she was about to haul off and hit him.

He should have stopped her.

He should have reminded her all the reasons, if only in terms of law enforcement, that it seldom pays to assault someone, even an ass.

But truly, Spencer had it coming.

Still.

_Dammit to hell on a crap-cracker. _

He kind of had an obligation, and besides, he didn't want her to ever have to touch Spencer again.

Therefore, with one savage kick, Carlton silenced the boombox instead. REO Speedwagon squawked briefly when the machine smashed against the wall, and then there was silence, except for Juliet's angry fast breathing.

Spencer said with complete seriousness, "I. Love. You."

Carlton could see how deeply he meant it, how incapable he was of accepting this relationship was over. How certain he was that if he just found the right phrase in his arsenal of smooth talk, he could swing Juliet's favor back his way.

Juliet let out a breath. "I'm too old for you, Shawn."

He smiled uncertainly, his hazel eyes glittering. "We can work this out. I can grow up for you."

"I can't wait. I need a grown-up _now_."

She glanced at Carlton, and Spencer didn't miss that.

"A grown-up, or an old man?" A hint of snarkery in the question.

Juliet ignored it. "Get out. Don't come here again. Don't come to my new place. Have your dad and Gus get your boxes tomorrow. But I don't want to see you again, and if you so much as cross the street at the same time I do, I _will_ arrest you for harassment."

"You wouldn't do that. You care about me too much." The bravado sounded good, but Carlton could see in his flickering gaze that he wasn't one hundred percent sure.

"Get out." Juliet was calmer now. Not happy, but not homicidal.

Spencer got to his feet, stepping too close. She held her ground, even as Carlton found his own fists clenching at this further violation.

"Jules. Don't be an idiot about us. Please."

Instantly, she slapped him hard across the face, and he stumbled back as she snapped, "An idiot? An _idiot_? Don't you get it? I am _done_ being an idiot about us." Turning rapidly, her face pale except for the bright spots of color in her cheeks, she gave Carlton an imploring look, and that was all he needed.

Striding forward, he grabbed Spencer's arm and herded him out of the room. He didn't say anything to him and he didn't let anything Spencer yelled at him get through his own defenses. He just half-dragged, half-shoved him through the house, down the stairs, and out onto the sidewalk.

While Spencer was still rubbing his slapped cheek, Carlton said, "You could have taken this like a man, Spencer. But instead you just go on acting like a spoiled brat. Get some damn therapy and stay the hell away from Juliet." He slammed the door, not above wishing it was slamming on the ass's head.

Juliet was waiting at the top of the stairs, looking cold and small and vulnerable.

_That son of a bitch. _

"Get an overnight bag together," he said decisively. "You're sleeping in my spare room tonight."

She wiped sudden tears off her cheeks as she nodded, and she didn't need to say the words 'thank you' for him to feel them deep in his soul.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

When she woke up in Carlton's cool dim condo, she knew he wasn't there. It was early, not even six, and she padded out to the living room to be sure the place was empty.

He'd left a note on the table: _Back in a bit. Start the coffee pot_.

She ran her fingers through her hair, yawning and feeling utterly safe. He had probably gone for a run, and on any other day she'd have been glad to join him, but once again, he was giving her space.

Space she didn't want anymore. Not from Carlton.

Once he had gotten her to his place last night, all her adrenalin drained away, leaving her exhausted, and even though it was still early, he urged her to try to sleep. Guiding her to the guest room, he gave her one long precious hug before he left. That hug—because nobody had ever hugged her as well as Carlton—had eased her path to sleep.

Shawn's behavior was beyond anything else she'd thought him capable of, and it had shaken her. There was no more room to hope for the best: today she would speak frankly to Chief Vick about the nature of their breakup, and she would print the papers she'd need to apply for a restraining order if it came to that. She would have to be ready.

She started the coffee and took a quick shower, and was making toast when Carlton returned. He was in his jogging clothes but didn't look as if he'd even broken a sweat. He accepted the mug of coffee and filched a slice of her toast, and she wanted all her mornings to be with him.

"You okay?" He eyed her over his mug.

Juliet could be completely honest. "I'm better. Every minute, I'm better than I was the minute before."

"Good," he said with a smile, one which lit his blue eyes from within (_how did he do that?_) and warmed her even more.

She went on ahead of him to work, since he needed to shower and shave (and she did not allow herself to make the offer of washing his back), but then in the Bug, she knew she had to go by the house…

… to be sure Shawn hadn't returned during the night to make matters worse, since now she understood as never before that he was likely to do whatever the _hell_ he wanted.

But inside that morning-sunlit house, what she found both startled and moved her.

Every box had been repacked and re-sealed. Even all of Shawn's boxes had been restored to order. The quilt had been repacked, the cushion was back on the sofa, and the remains of the boombox had been cleared away.

Everything was…

_Carlton._

That's why he wasn't sweaty from a run. He'd driven here instead and fixed every bit of damage caused by Shawn.

Juliet put her hands to suddenly hot cheeks and willed her misty eyes to keep those tears at bay.

_Neither one of us is going to be waiting very much longer. _

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"Just tell me what he did."

Henry pinned Carlton in place with his look alone, the dolly between them ready to be loaded with another few boxes. Guster wandered over to hear.

"Lassiter. I know he's not perfect, but I need to know how bad this was."

Carlton let go of the dolly and crossed his arms. "Short version, he opened all the boxes and threw her things around, and then laid this crap on her about how he intended to live with her in the new place, which he admitted to already having snooped around in."

Sighing, Henry rubbed his forehead. "Dammit. I never thought…"

Even Guster looked uneasy.

"I'm sorry," Henry said heavily.

"Don't apologize to _me_. Juliet's the one hurting."

He had called Henry in the morning after Juliet left his condo, and told him flatly that if he and Guster and whoever the hell else they lined up didn't come to collect Junior's junk that night, Carlton would personally deliver it to the landfill.

When he got to the station, Juliet came to his desk immediately and sat down. She said levelly that she knew he'd cleaned up the evidence of Spencer's intrusion. She said it wasn't the kind of event Hallmark made a card for, but she would find other ways to show her appreciation, starting with buying his lunch. His somewhat gruff response was to demur, but Juliet only smiled and whispered, "I owe you so much," returning to her desk before he could protest. Before he could explain that he didn't do anything for her to be _owed_, but only because… because he loved her.

Right now, he had banished Juliet to her spare bedroom, saying he didn't want her anywhere near anything of Spencer's. She had nodded and disappeared, but not before touching his face gently and gratefully.

Henry and Guster continued moving boxes, Henry looking more and more his age, not from the physical exertion—he was miles ahead of Guster—but from the obvious path of worry he had for his son.

Guster stayed at the truck after the last load, but Henry came back into the house to take one last look around.

Carlton watched as he paced the master bedroom for a minute.

"I don't know to fix this, Lassiter."

"You can't fix it. Tell him to stay away from her."

Henry laughed shortly. "How is telling him going to make him listen?"

"Just make sure he understands that not only can Juliet take care of herself, but I'll be taking care of her too. And don't forget: I'm the damned Deputy Chief of Police and she's the Head Detective. You think we can't make it hard for him to have a life here if he keeps screwing with hers?"

"You don't have to warn _me_." He sighed and half-turned away. "I'll do my best, and so will Gus, and just so you know, we stand with Juliet as much as we stand with Shawn. We'll be protecting her too if he can't get a handle on his emotions."

"Good, because I don't want to arrest your son."

Henry gave him a look. "Yeah you do," he said dryly.

Carlton grinned. "Yeah I do."

They shook hands before Henry left—with Henry muttering that he should cherish Juliet, which was a moot point—and Carlton went around making sure the house was locked up tight. He'd asked Juliet earlier if she really intended to spend this last night here—his spare room was still available—but she said she did.

The guest room door was mostly closed, and he tapped lightly.

"Come in," she called.

Carlton pushed open the door, and was surprised—intrigued—to see candlelight.

Juliet was sitting on the edge of the bed, and around her, a dozen candles flickered from their stands on top of the stacked boxes, which other than the lamp and the bed and her overnight bag comprised the contents of the room.

"Hey," he murmured, senses on alert.

"Everything done?"

"Yeah. In the words of that funny little lady from _Poltergeist_, this house is clean."

Juliet smiled brilliantly, and the candlelight played across the gold of her hair.

"Good. Thank you. Would you close the door? I… I'd like to talk to you."

His heart skittered.

**. . . . **

**. . .**

Juliet watched Carlton close the door and turn back, and felt much calmer than she'd expected.

In a myriad of ways—ways she could never explain to him—he was beautiful. Not just because of his expressive eyes, his lean build and graceful hands, but because of his heart. Deep and private and loyal, it held treasures she meant to uncover one by one over as many years as it took to get to the pot of gold.

He stood a few feet away from the bed, hands in his pockets, studying her studying him.

"I've had a rough few months. We both have. And you've been there for me through all of it."

"No regrets."

"I asked you to wait for me, and you did."

"No regrets there either," he said, his voice husky.

"I thought it would be until after I got settled in my new place. Fresh start. New beginnings, all that."

Carlton nodded. He was so still.

"I thought I needed to leave all this—" she gestured to the space around her, "behind. This life. Or this _attempt_ at a life."

He just looked at her, the blue shifting with the flickering candlelight.

"But this room. This one. It's been mine the past six weeks. And you've been here in the house with me so much that it's become… ours, I guess. So… I changed my mind."

Carlton drew in on himself, almost imperceptibly, but she _knew_ him.

Unhurriedly, she went on, "There's no point now to starting the new thing after I move. The new thing already started." She got up, moving closer to where he stood silently. "So I wanted to tell you, Carlton, that this is where we stop waiting."

He let out a long, slow breath, and when she reached up to touch his lean warm face, he closed his eyes for a moment.

"It's time," she whispered.

Carlton's hands moved to grasp her upper arms lightly, and he lowered his head to kiss her—soft, gentle, restrained.

Restrained?

"Carlton…"

"Do you want me?" His voice was low.

Juliet smiled. "Yes."

"No. I mean, do you want _me_?"

"Completely," she assured him, yet wondering about his continued stillness.

"Not just…" He paused, and then finished with a trace of anger, "someone who's completely different from Spencer?"

Juliet searched his eyes, trying to see into his soul, as his grip on her arms tightened. "I want you because you're you."

Carlton let her go, but stayed close. "Because I can't get a few months or years down the road and have you figure out that all the reasons you were never interested in me before are back. I'm what you see, Juliet. Good, bad, cranky, cocky—24/7. No surprises."

She put her hands on his chest, stroking him, feeling his heartbeat. "If you saw what I see, you'd understand just how many surprises there are. Yes, you're different from Shawn, but that's not why I have these feelings. You're also the best friend I've ever had, and that's not why I have these feelings either." Sliding her hands up to cup his face, pressing herself to him and feeling his involuntary response of pressing back, she whispered, "I have these feelings because my heart is yours, and always will be."

Carlton's eyes were huge, and then his mouth closed over hers, hot and ardent, and Juliet wound herself around him.

His hands moved on her back, tugging her even closer, and she was hard put to say whose kiss was more fierce or more loving.

This man loved her. He didn't need to say it. It was in his kisses, in how he held her, in how there was something both animal and reverent in the heat and need he shared with her.

Juliet tangled her fingers in his hair, tight to his body, feeling all of his arousal from shoulders to feet, learning every single mystery of his lips and tongue and how they felt against hers.

This was a kiss which spoke a thousand words, all of them summed up as "us."

Pulling back, she said breathlessly, "I am going to make love to you all night long. You know this, right?"

"I do now," he growled, and grasped the hem of her shirt to pull it up and off.

While his fingers fumbled with the clasp of her bra, Juliet unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off his shoulders, stroking his bare chest with trembling hands. He was so warm, and the hair on his chest was coarse but soft. She kissed his sternum and drank in his warmth, and then sat down on the edge of the bed, working at his belt.

Carlton looked down at her, his hands settling on her shoulders, slipping her bra straps down while she unbuckled and unzipped him.

She obliged his unspoken request by discarding the bra, but kept him from bending to her with a few words. "I'm doing this for you first. You've waited long enough."

Besides, she had pent-up fantasies to unleash.

Sliding his slacks and boxers down and allowing him to step free, Juliet surveyed her man. All lean strength, dark and graying curls of hair… everywhere… his arousal plain to see and ready for her touch.

For her mouth.

Carlton's gasp was profound when she grasped him, and more so when she kissed him, stroked him, loved him.

His hot flesh was silky under her tongue and his breathing increasingly ragged, and she would not let him go, anchoring herself to him with one hand on his hip and the other where he most wanted it, along with her mouth.

Her explorations were slow and detailed, for she wanted to know all about this most private part of her man, and what she was learning was delicious and wicked and increased her appetite for him tenfold.

He warned her gutturally that he wasn't going to last long if she kept this up, and that's what she wanted to hear: surrender.

Surrender is what she got, along with his hands clamping her shoulders almost painfully, as she gave her man what she'd wanted to give him for far too long now—a powerful release, a powerful orgasm under her ministrations, and a reason to believe their waiting was truly and completely over.

Carlton recovered fast, half-dragging her up onto the bed proper, almost yanking her pants off, touching her everywhere as he explored her body—which was his in every way.

Where his hands had been a few days ago, his mouth now followed, and the sight of his dark head between her thighs was as erotic as what he was doing there with his tongue and fingers.

Juliet moaned out her pleasure—pleasure he thrived on, for he wouldn't let up. Her whole body trembled with the aftershocks, again and again, of the effects of his work.

She begged him to be with her, and pulled him up to lie with her, kissing him voraciously. With her legs hooked around his thighs, he entered her, slowly and surely and completely. The feeling of being joined to him was enormous, bigger than anything else she'd ever experienced in her life.

Eyes wide open, they locked onto each other as they ground together. It was so inexpressibly right. This man. Her man. In her. Owning her. Letting her own him.

Juliet arched up and kissed him hard, one long luscious kiss for each thrust, one gasp for each tremor, and he groaned as their orgasms burgeoned, each in turn, rolling endlessly in the candlelit room.

In the light of love.

He kissed her face, all over. He caressed her breasts, teasing her nipples, nipping at her flesh, and she could feel between them, where they were still joined, that there was still something left for her, something she'd be attending to very soon.

"I love you, Juliet," he murmured, kissing her nose.

Juliet welcomed his weight on her, welcomed his kisses, and slipped her hands into his hair, tugging and stroking and kissing him back. "I love you too."

"I'm going to love you until I die."

"I hope you always think I'm worth it."

Carlton lifted his head, staring at her in wonder. "You? You're worth everything."

"_Because_ you love me," she said gently, and his eyes, dear God, were crystal blue with wonder and the best thing of all: hope.

"Juliet…"

She stroked his temples gently. "I intend for us to make love until about fifteen minutes before the movers get here in the morning. Okay?"

A smile curved his mouth. "Yes."

"Some of that lovemaking might be in the shower. Okay?"

"More than." He nibbled her lower lip, grinding to her.

"Then after they take everything over to the new place, we're going to make love over there until noon Sunday."

He grinned. "Why noon?"

"Lunch, of course." Juliet sighed. "Oh my God, Ursula Gibbs was right about you."

Carlton nipped at her ear. "No she wasn't."

"Oh yes she was, because if you were like this with her—"

"I wasn't," he interrupted firmly.

Juliet trailed her fingertips along his throat. "No?"

"I didn't love her." He held her still with his body, and captured her wandering hands, holding them up by her head. "I didn't need her. She wasn't everything to me, the way you are."

She breathed deeply, and Carlton kissed her, and she dragged him down deep into her soul, since he had already moved into her heart.

**. . . .**

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** EPILOGUE**

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Juliet spoke to Karen Vick about the breakup and what she was prepared to do if Shawn would not leave her alone.

But he forestalled any action on her part by leaving town for a few months, riding off on his Norton for parts unknown. Gus said he'd be back, and Henry hoped he would. Juliet only hoped that the Shawn who returned would be an adult, a healing adult who had moved on. Whether or not they ever stood face-to-face again, she hoped for his sake that he could shed his Peter Pan persona and accept… just _accept_.

Carlton, her beloved Carlton, cranky and fierce, was a most excellent Deputy Chief in the workplace and an even more excellent friend and lover and soulmate. They gravitated toward each other naturally, protecting and drawing strength from each other.

She knew some people didn't understand it. Chief Vick seemed unsurprised, however, and her vote counted most. It was simpler because they were no longer officially partnered, but she admitted she'd have allowed their partnership to remain in effect anyway because they were such a united front.

They were publicly a couple by the time Gus told her Shawn had returned, when the sale of Carlton's condo was nearly complete and he was about to move in with her. Their plans were to get married and find a house of their own, but there was no rushing—only certainty.

The day he asked her to marry him, she cried for half an hour, terrifying him completely to the point of nearly taking it back, but Juliet threatened to punch him in the nose if he did. She promised him through her tears that she was now officially the happiest woman who had ever lived, and he should shut it.

He carried her to bed and made love to her until they both ached, and she cried a little more because she was so unbelievably happy to be his woman. Carlton was helpless to understand the tears, but he loved her, and nothing else mattered at all.

They were coming out of Starbucks one morning when they saw Shawn for the first time. He'd lost weight, and he looked healthy—back to the first few years she knew him, when he was all bright-eyed energy.

He was talking to a girl outside the smoothie shop across the street, and he didn't see them.

Carlton glanced at her, squeezing her hand.

Juliet smiled. "It's okay. Let's go."

"You sure?" He knew of her natural inclination to Make Things Right, and Shawn had certainly been a powerful force in her life.

"I'm sure. I hope he finds what he needs." She glanced up at her blue-eyed love. "I know I did."

Carlton smiled and brushed her cheek with a light kiss. "So did I."

They strolled down the street together, and if Shawn noticed them, she didn't sense it, and it didn't matter anyway. She had Carlton, and there was no better man. She would simply spend the rest of her life making sure he needed no better woman.

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_[A/N: thank you, __**Lawson227**__ and __**iknowuknow**__, for sticking with this story until the end. I appreciate your feedback, and this Lassiet, in a dwindling world of Lassiet fans, is for you.]_


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